


the state of my heart

by apricotcake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bucky Barnes-centric, F/F, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanov, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Russian Bucky Barnes, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricotcake/pseuds/apricotcake
Summary: The barista at Bucky's local coffee shop is going to be the death of him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 86
Kudos: 288





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'the predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us' by sufjan stevens

Carter’s seems to have been here since the beginning of time itself.

Bucky swears he’s seen it for most of his life, but he hadn’t gone in until the past few months, since it made no sense to come all the way from Crown Heights for a cup of coffee when he had a perfectly good deli around the corner, but now that he’s not living at home, now that he’s managed to swing a studio in Bed-Stuy, it’s the closest thing to his place that isn’t Starbucks. 

Maybe it’s a little too hipster for his tastes, but at least they have coffee when you ask for it. They don’t ask him about roasts or pour-overs, they just ask if he wants a small or a large drink, and if he's taking it to-go.

The best part is that they stay open a little later than other joints, Bucky doesn’t mind spending a few hours in there and the staff doesn’t mind the patrons who linger. It’s quiet in there most days, and for that he's grateful.

 _Most days_ being the keyword, because it’s a goddamn madhouse today.

Bucky never comes to Carter’s on weekends. The place isn’t huge, but when it’s busy, it’s always like this; too many people, nowhere to sit, and orders as petulant as he sounds, he’s not waiting fifteen minutes for one latte.

But he’s already made his bed, stuck in the sluggish line and moving forward unconsciously as he reads the text from his father over again. 

_Might need you to watch Becca this week. Sitter canceled on us last minute. Sorry kid. Will call and let you know._

The thing is, Bucky has more time than he’d like to admit. He had a half-decent job working at a publishing house until they shut down, which means his work is mainly freelance these days, leaves him in touch with a few familiar faces that pay him well, and now that he’s taken on translating, too, he’s not scrambling to pay his bills.

It’s not exactly what he wants, but it’s enough for now. It’s giving him time to think.

 _OK_ is all he has the chance to write back, and doesn’t even know why he says it, why he agrees to the possibility. Impulse? Guilt? Bucky can’t remember the last time his parents even left Brooklyn or did anything for themselves since Rebecca was born.

Between that lumped in with Bucky leaving for college, Bucky dropping out of college, then the recession hitting and the three of them scrambling for jobs to support themselves and a growing toddler, and then finally finding a way to keep their heads above water, it’s definitely been a hell of a decade. If anyone deserves a week away from home, it’s his ma and pop.

Hell, maybe Bucky does too, but that's the last thing on his mind right now.

“Hey, buddy, it’s your turn,” an irritated voice says from behind him, and snaps him from his thoughts, so he moves up to the counter and oh, _God_.

“Hey, Bucky,” Blondie says the moment he sees him, and flashes him a smile Bucky’s gotten too used to seeing. “Same as usual, right?”

Bucky has no clue what the barista’s name is, despite Blondie knowing his from writing it on a cup all the time, and at this point, he’s too embarrassed to ask. He’s come here at least four times a week for the last three months, and he wishes he was more concerned about it dipping into his funds, but he likes it here. He feels comfortable. The wi-fi is better than his apartment’s, and he just seems to get more done here compared to his couch or the kitchen counter.

He also doesn’t mind seeing this guy’s face once in a while, and what that says about him and his relationships, he doesn’t want to know.

“Same as usual,” Bucky echoes, and eyes a table toward the back. If he can grab it, he won’t mind sticking around for a while, clearing his head until his parents inevitably call.

There isn’t much talk after that, just a usual back and forth. Bucky digs a few dollars from his pocket, since Carter’s is one of the few coffee shops in his area that take cash, and drops the change in a jar before he walks away.

He’s only waiting around for a minute or two, reading the text over again, before he hears his order being called. Well, all he hears is _Bucky_ and _latte_ , but that’s good enough for him, so he takes his drink and makes a beeline for the table.

He tugs his laptop from his bag, and it connects to the shop’s wi-fi almost immediately after he turns it on. He slips his earbuds in, opens the catastrophe of a first draft he’s working on, and takes a sip of his—

Not his latte.

Oh.

Oh, that’s _awful_.

What the hell is that? Bucky tugs the cap from the cup, which definitely says his name, but instead of a familiar creamy brown, his drink is a bright green and has an unceremonious dusting of what he assumes are rose petals.

Christ, the shop is still swamped. It’s not like he can just shove through the crowd and complain about his order. He doesn’t complain about anything, and he doesn’t plan to start now.

 _Just try it again_ , he tells himself, and takes another sip and _no, no, no, absolutely not_. It tastes...earthy. Like dirt, and the mouthful of rose petals taste like they’re straight from his grandmother’s flower vase, the same one that always made his throat itch.

Having ‘make it work’ ingrained in his mind usually works out in his favor. He’s found a love for medium-cooked burgers, for the purple knit throw he was accidentally shipped rather than the blue he ordered, for plenty of songs he thought he’d hate at first listen, but after another painstaking sip, it doesn’t look like the latte is going to fall into that category. 

There’s no point moving now, though. He has time for himself, time to put words to page for at least a little while, and then it’s meeting his latest editing deadline, and then possibly, the world of babysitting.

His mind isn’t in the right place for writing anymore, but he’s come all the way here. He'd might as well try.

-

An hour passes. Most of the people squished into the shop have gone, and the sun has lowered in the sky, left burnt orange light reflecting through the windows.

It could be nice, but Bucky has barely written a thousand words and can't focus on much aside from that fact.

At this point, he’s resorted to picking apart everything he’s already written. Cutting lines, and pasting them back where they were. Considering rewriting his outline and reconsidering that decision. For less than a minute, he thinks about trashing the whole draft and then takes it back. He’s already done that once, and he still regrets it. Still wishes he could salvage what he had written and give it a chance.

Bucky glowers at the pink and green monstrosity beside him, still tasting it in the back of his throat. _T_ __hi_ s is all your fault, _ he thinks _._

He grits his teeth and tries to squeeze at least a few words out, half-listening to his usual playlist and the faint clink of plates and mugs being gathered up, growing ever closer. He doesn’t glance up, even though he can see who’s there from the corner of his eye, and tries to look extremely absorbed in his screen before he risks looking at—

“You sure that’s your usual?” Blondie asks wryly, carrying a tub filled with dirty dishes.

Bucky freezes. 

“Uh,” he starts. He scrubs his hand over his face, forces himself to meet Blondie’s eye. “No, I just didn’t want to—” _Fuck_ . “It’s gonna sound stupid.”  
  
Blondie gives his usual small, lopsided smile. “Humor me.” 

He’s wearing glasses today, meaning he’s been wearing contacts every other time Bucky has seen him, and the fact that this is interesting to Bucky proves he’s in too deep with this guy, getting too close to doing something stupid.

“So, my order got mixed up,” Bucky huffs, gestures at his cup. “And...I don’t know what the hell this is, but I don’t like complaining, so I just—”  
  
“Kept drinking something you didn’t like?” Blondie cuts in.  
  
Bucky smiles without much humor. “I told you it was stupid,” he says, and feels a creeping sense of humiliation crawling up his chest, but he does his best to stomp it down.  
  
“It’s not stupid,” Blondie says lightly, and shrugs. Strangely, Bucky's nerves ease. “Scott made like, seven of those today, so a mix-up was gonna happen. Gimme a second, and I’ll get rid of it.”

“So, what is it?” Bucky asks, spares the drink another glance.  
  
“It’s a matcha rose latte,” Blondie answers, and Bucky’s nose must wrinkle up at that because Blondie sighs and says, “Look, I don’t get it either. I don’t get why anyone likes half the menu, honestly.”

“Guess I’m never asking you for a drink recommendation,” Bucky says before he can stop himself. “”Specially if you’re gonna lie to my face. Ain’t there an expression about service with a smile or something?”

Bucky expects a forced chuckle, or maybe something professional and something that brushes him off, so the guy can walk away but something much worse happens and Blondie laughs, actually laughs, and it crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Service with a smile only goes so far,” he calls as he walks away, and sets the tub down behind the counter before he comes back to grab Bucky’s drink.  
  
“Hey, don’t think I don’t know,” Bucky says. “I worked plenty of jobs where I had to deal with assholes. Everyone’s gonna have their off days.”  
  
Of course, a part of Bucky knows how meaningless their conversation is, but he’s been a little...well, _deprived socially_ is a nice way of putting it. Even though his work is from home, it’s not as if he has all the time in the world to do whatever he pleases, see the friends he still has.

Blondie says something else, but Bucky isn’t able to pay attention to it because his phone buzzes against the table. Another text, this time from his ma— _are u_ _home? on our way over._

“ _Shit,_ ” he hisses before he can stop himself. A woman sitting at the table near him gives him a dirty look. He pays it no mind and sends back _yes_ before he pockets his phone, slams his laptop shut and shoves it into his bag. “Hey, don’t worry about the coffee, huh? I gotta get going.”  
  
Blondie knits his brows together, spilling your old drink into the sink. “Everything okay?” he asks, which is... a response Bucky wasn’t expecting.

“I just gotta—” Bucky jerks his head toward the door. He’s present enough to know he doesn’t want to share any of his personal life with someone who’s essentially a stranger to him. “Stuff to take care of at home. Thanks, anyway...”  
  
Bucky trails off as he realizes that Blondie does, in fact, have a name. Bucky just doesn’t know it, so there’s a beat of silence just before Blondie says, “Steve.”

 _Finally_ , Bucky thinks, and resists the urge to smile as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "Steve," he echoes. “You look like a Steve.”

God, if Bucky could pull the words back into his mouth, he would. What does that even mean, _he looks like a Steve_?  
  
But Steve just gives him a lopsided smile and looks at him over his glasses. It’s infectious, honestly, hard not to smile back, and that's exactly what Bucky does. “I hope that’s a compliment,” Steve says.

Whatever Bucky says, he knows he'll regret it, and Steve might not think anything of it anyway. So, he shrugs, makes his way for the door. “Could be," he says. "I'll see you around, Steve."

He doesn’t have much time to think about it because he’s jogging home. His folks don’t live far, and Bucky’s place has been something like a nightmare these past few days. Whether he’s their kid or not, he doubts they want Rebecca possibly roughing it in a dirty apartment while they’re on vacation.

-

It's difficult to think about the exchange with Steve, because there's the very likely possibility of it meaning nothing at all. The guy has no choice but to be nice to everyone, regulars included, and that fact stomps out the questions rushing around his head for a while. It's almost a relief, gives Bucky time to occupy himself with cleaning up.

Because his place is so small, it doesn’t take long. A studio can only hold so much clutter, and he's not one to live in messes for long, anyway.

He washes the dishes piled in the sink, shoves his hamper into the closet, opens a window to air the room out for a while. He wipes the counters, makes sure everything’s in order before Ma sticks her nose in everything and asks when’s the last time he bought groceries or if he’d had friends over recently and _speaking_ of meeting people, has he—

God, he needs to stop. There’s no point getting worked up before she gets here at all.

-

All that's left to do is vacuum, which has been long overdue. Now that he's finished, the apartment is a bit more breathable, a bit easier on the eyes, especially since Bucky is the one stuck looking at it.

Faintly, he can hear footsteps through the thin walls, and he’s about to flop onto the couch when there’s a booming knock at the door like a drum roll, like someone using both fists for it.

It’s really no use guessing who pushed her way to the door first, because she’s still knocking as Bucky moves to answer it. Faintly, he can hear his ma telling Rebecca to quit it, and then—

“Hey, Bucky!” Rebecca shouts, and Bucky is almost knocked back with the force of her leaping at him, all messy hair and all the brute strength an eight year old could muster up to squeeze him with her skinny arms.

Bucky catches her when she latches onto his neck, squeezes her in. “Hey, pal,” he chuckles. “Been a while.”

“Yeah, I know, but I missed you,” Becca says, and Bucky almost chokes when her arms tighten.

“Missed you too,” he grits out, pats her on the back. It’s barely been a week since he’s seen her. 

Bucky moved out two years ago, right after his twenty-third birthday, and coming from such a close family, it’s hard to avoid affection when it’s about to be doled out, no matter who it comes from.

When his parents walk in, he shuts the door behind them, sets Becca down and lets her take a running start to flop onto the couch.

“Hey, what happened to sitting like a lady?” Pop calls, squeezes Bucky’s shoulder as he passes, turns his eyes to him. “How’ve you been, Buck?”

Bucky shrugs. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Livin’ the dream.”

-

Maybe a part of Bucky misses living at home, because it’s not a bad evening. It’s boring, but it’s normal. Ordering food, watching Bucky’s too-small TV while he and his parents sit on the couch and Becca opts to lie on her stomach on the floor, seeming to need to get as close to the screen as she can.  
  
“That’s gonna fry your brain, squirt,” Bucky says through a mouthful of pad thai. “Scoot back a little, why don't you?”  
  
“I’m okay,” Rebecca says, and, well, that’s the end of that. Truth is, they all let her get away with too much. Being the baby of the family, especially a surprise baby, leaves her getting off scot-free on most things.

She moves anyway, though, and goes snooping into the kitchen, which seems to give Ma a window to talk.

She glances over at Bucky, nudges him with her elbow. “Hey,” she says. “About what we asked you earlier.”  
  
“Come on, you know I don’t mind her being here,” Bucky says, leans back against the cushions. “I was gonna end up dropping in on her even if she was with a babysitter, and I know you two ain’t just gonna send her to Aunt Evie's.”

“Oh, hell you had to remind me,” Ma says, grimaces. “We’re not stupid enough to make that mistake again.”

Bucky would rather not reminisce on it either.

It wasn’t traumatizing, but he still has a deep-rooted hatred for his cousins and Aunt Evie, and the week he spent with them in Passaic. A week of being subjected to being called James since his nickname seemed to offend everyone, going to church every other morning, and some of the worst food he’s ever eaten. Not to mention, being told he was going to hell for not saying grace with the family, which just fell into every ‘ungodly’ thing he unknowingly did that week.

Despite being thirteen, Bucky was half-tempted to get on a bus back to Brooklyn.

“Well, lucky you, not having to deal with that again when you got me right here,” Bucky says, gestures to himself.

“Look, Buck,” Ma starts, huffs. “Worse comes to worse, you’ll have her for a day and we’ll see if Jeanie ends up having time. I mean it, you don’t have to—” 

“Ma, I already raised her,” Bucky cuts in. “I’d rather have her here with me than a nanny who keeps flaking on you. Hell, I didn't mind watching her for a couple hours a night when you asked me to, either. It’s _Becca_. Not like you’re a couple of strangers coming to me asking if I can watch their kid.”

Ma opens her mouth to speak, but that’s when Becca sticks her head out of the doorway, eating the bag of cheese puffs Bucky bought for _himself_ , damn it.

“I get to stay here?” she asks, and she's already sparking up with the idea, looking straight at Bucky, just to increase his guilt ever so slightly. “Really?”  
  
He glances over at his parents, then back to Rebecca. “Sure, but I got one rule,” he says, points a finger at her. “No Frozen.”

“I _hate_ Frozen,” Rebecca says, and her nose wrinkles up with it. She says it with such conviction, Bucky almost forgets she watched it every day for two months and sang the songs constantly. Up until recently, apparently.

“Then I’m glad to have you, Becks,” Bucky says, and he is. Of course he is. He’s been with her her whole life, so what’s another week added to that?

“YES!” Rebecca’s running for Ma and Pop, her snack half-spilled and abandoned on the floor as she all but climbs into their laps, which isn’t as endearing as it should be considering how rough she is, almost kicking Pop in the face. “Thankyouthankyou _thankyou,_ I hate when Jeanie babysits me, she’s so boring—” She turns to Bucky with a grin. “We’re gonna have so much _fun_.”

Fun, maybe, but it’s certainly going to be a hell of a week. Bucky can tell that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at the moment, i'm not sure what my update schedule for this fic is as i'm still working on the sequel to my [romani!bucky fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289947/chapters/53233648) and various other little things that are driving me insane but i'm gonna do my best to be consistent with this so here's to hoping you enjoy!
> 
> also:
> 
> 1) i do not share bucky's deep dislike of matcha lattes they are a delicacy
> 
> 2) STEVE WILL RETURN SOON
> 
> 3) thanks so much for reading! feel free to let me know what you think so far!! tags will likely change as the fic updates :)


	2. Chapter 2

It isn’t much longer before his family clears out, before his pop tells him they’ll drop Rebecca off the following evening so they can go straight to the airport the next morning.

Rebecca’s a good age. She’s old enough that Bucky doesn’t have to baby-proof anything, she’s not a picky eater, and it’s no guessing game when she wants something. He knows her well enough to know he won’t have to call his folks and ask about something when Rebecca would sooner tell Bucky herself.

He does his best to turn in at a decent hour, and actually manages to wake up early enough that he can get some work done. He puts finishing touches on editing the manuscript he’s been working on, and finally, finally, sends it back to his client, feels the weight of it lift off his shoulders. It’s been weeks upon weeks of staring at it, going back and forth with Jane Foster, who’s been as easy going as she could be, but her book was a _monster_ , and while he hopes everything works in her favor, Bucky’s glad to be finished with the project.

By noon, Bucky finds himself back at Carter’s, which is significantly quieter than it was yesterday, and he’s almost relieved when he doesn’t see Steve at the counter, when he sees a barista he doesn’t recognize, but then Steve pops out from the back just as Bucky reaches the counter.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve says, sans glasses today, leans forward on the counter. “Latte, right?”  
  
“I think I’m just gonna have a red eye,” Bucky says, and gives him a tired smile. His eyes are still smarting from staring at his screen all morning, but he has his own work to focus on, and he knows he won’t have much time to do that once Becca shows up. “Been up since seven and I think I’m on my way to crashing.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Steve says, and he runs a hand over his face before he grabs a mug from the tray beside him and fills it with coffee before he turns to the espresso machine behind him. “”Pulled somethin’ like an all-nighter and then I came straight here.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says with feeling. He’s in no rush to move ahead, since there’s no one behind him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a five dollar bill. “All-nighters and I don’t mix. I do it once, and I know I won’t go to sleep before six every night for a month.”

“Guess you’re not much of a night owl,” Steve says, pours a shot into Bucky’s coffee and turns back to him, slides it across the counter. “Oh, hey, it’s on the house. Gotta make it up to you for yesterday.”

Bucky doubted he’d remember, even though it _was_ only yesterday, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. “Right,” Bucky says. “Thanks again, Steve.”

“No worries,” Steve says, glances downward and then back up at Bucky. “Nice shirt, by the way.”  
  
“Oh,” Bucky says dimly and glances down. Turns out he put on a Led Zeppelin shirt, not the plain black he thought he grabbed at first glance. It’s a simple compliment, but Bucky still feels a little smug with it. “Thanks. Just don’t be a music purist and ask me to name three of their songs.”   
  
Steve arches a brow at him. “ _Do_ you know at least three of their songs?” he shoots back.

“I don’t gotta answer that,” Bucky says, starts making his way toward the table, feels Steve’s eyes follow him. He turns around. “But if I _have_ to—”

“Please don’t say Stairway to Heaven,” Steve all but groans.

Bucky sucks on his teeth for a second, puts his hands on his hips as he thinks, and then it comes to him. “All My Love, Going to California, Tangerine,” he says, raises his chin. “Happy?”

Steve snorts, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’m happy,” he deadpans. “Jerk.”  
  
“Wow, I’m flattered,” Bucky shoots back. “You know, talk like that is taking me one step closer to speaking to a manager.”   
  
“First of all, we already know you’re not gonna,” Steve says. “Second, since Sharon isn’t here, I’m the closest thing to a manager we have. What can I help you with?”

“Not sure yet,” Bucky says. “But I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

It’s like the discomfort Bucky initially felt is being chipped away immediately, and somehow it makes Bucky feel less on the spot, less worried about coming off as weird or too forward when Steve actually _looks_ at him, looks at him with something Bucky can’t seem to place.

Steve looks ready to respond, but that’s when a customer walks through the door, so Bucky leaves him to it, finds the right moment to slip away toward the back, settle at a table with a little more motivation than he had yesterday.  
  
His coffee is hot, he has nothing to do for a while, and so he might be able to take advantage of this time, do something productive with it.

-

Bucky manages to get through the scene that was giving him hell, and that seems to give him the momentum he needs to burn through the remaining half of the chapter, the following chapter, and an idea of how to go about the one following that.

He manages to squeeze out five thousand words in a little under two hours, and feels almost foolishly pleased with that fact, since he hasn’t been able to make any breakthroughs this past week. If he can do this again after Rebecca falls asleep, and repeat this whole process tomorrow, he might be able to make up for all the writer’s block, make up for the feeling of being so stuck in the claws of doubt he so often falls into.

It’s only one good writing session, but those always seem to restore his faith in a project, so Bucky would be an idiot not to take advantage of it.

The shop has gotten a little busier while he was busy, and when he pulls his earbuds out, it’s a rush of noise. The music from the shop’s speakers, the chatter from other patrons, a baby crying. It all blends together into something almost bearable, but if he sticks around any longer, he’ll have to scramble home all over again.

So, he packs up and moves to leave. The moment he moves away from his table, two girls snatch it. He glances over at the counter, watches Steve working the register for a moment and plans for it to be _exactly_ that, but Steve catches his gaze and gives Bucky the same lopsided smile he gave him yesterday.   
  
Maybe Bucky is imagining it, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but there’s something warmer behind it. He hopes he’s managing the same when he smiles back, gives Steve a wave before he walks out into the late afternoon sun, heat dry and close on his skin.

-

“But like I was saying, it’s pathetic,” Bucky says into the phone, squeezes it between his ear and his shoulder as he fumbles for his keys, unlocks the door as he tries not to pay the neighbors shouting at each other any mind. “I swear to God, it is.”  
  
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Natasha says. Bucky can hear the rush of wind, the faint crash of the ocean. She’s not at work today, then. He’s half-tempted to visit or ask her to visit him, just to see a familiar face. “You have a crush. Everyone gets them, Barnes, you’re not special for having one.”

“You get what I mean,” Bucky says irritably, and kicks the door shut behind him when he gets inside, drops his keys on the tiny dinner table. “He’s paid to be nice to people. I think if I were him, I would’ve been creeped out by now.”

“Well, is he creeped out?” Natasha asks.  
  
Bucky leans back on the couch, slouches into it. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “He complimented my shirt. He asked if I know at least three Led Zeppelin songs without mentioning _Stairway to Heaven_ , and called me a jerk once I did and asked if that was up to his standards.”   
  
“That doesn’t sound like he’s creeped out,” Natasha says, and then it turns quiet, like gone back inside. “You’ve worked plenty of jobs. Do you flirt back with customers?”   
  
“I was not flirting with him,” Bucky says. “I was _talking_ to him.”

“Just consider the fact that you’re not weird, the fact that almost every guy in Brooklyn has the potential to not be straight, and the fact that he sees you every day,” Natasha says. “It’s not a big surprise if he’s flirting back.”  
  
“Nat, I said I wasn’t—”   
  
“Sure, you weren’t,” she says, and faintly Bucky hears a door slam, and a sharp, muffled _fuck me_ in Ukranian, which he’s only learned because of the few times he’s met Natasha’s roommate. “Guess you can hear who just got home.”   
  
“I wonder what happened in the world of decorative soaps this time,” Bucky muses, and then, just to get back at Natasha, “Say, while we’re on the topic of relationships—”   
  
“And on that note, I need to get going,” Natasha says.   
  
“You know what? I changed my mind. I’m not pathetic, because I have the chance to not see this guy again if I choose to, but _you_ —”

“I’ll see you on Wednesday,” Natasha says instead of whatever insult she obviously wants to throw at him. “Happy babysitting.”

Wednesday is Rebecca’s ballet class. Natasha’s a teacher for younger kids, and it’s inevitable that they’ll bump into each other then, find some time to get together. It feels like Bucky struggles to hold onto the few friends he has, and their schedules aren’t making that any easier.

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky quips, and Natasha doesn’t even grace him with a response, just makes a disgusted noise before she hangs up.

He drops his phone and shuts his eyes for a long moment, still feeling lighter than he expected.  
  
There’s a possibility of Natasha being right, but it’s just so goddamn hard to believe that when Bucky’s interactions with Steve are fleeting, bordering on meaningless. Sure, there was a different air to it today, but that could be because he’s never talked to Steve for more than a minute before. Christ, Bucky didn’t learn his name until _yesterday_.

He glances at the clock on the wall. He still has hours until Rebecca shows up.

What the hell is he supposed to do until then?

-

Evidently, nothing.

Bucky manages to kill four hours, spending two of those watching Chopped and thinking _I wouldn’t have done that_ when the contestants botch their dishes. He spends the following hour brushing up what he’s already written, and then finds himself falling down a rabbit hole of e-mails he’d forgotten to answer. 

It gives him an idea of what he might have time for soon, and thankfully, everyone has an idea of what they need and when they need it. It gives him space to breathe, knowing he’ll have money coming in soon. His payment from Foster should be in his account by tomorrow. He has enough for food, for the rent, and some to spare for himself.

Not necessarily easy living, but he doesn’t mind it, doing all his work from home. He isn’t sure how he’ll adjust when he inevitably starts looking for something that pays better, something that keeps him on his feet more often, maybe gives him time to travel more. There’s so much he wants to see, but he knows he can’t just go as he pleases. Not now, at least.

After that, it seems like Bucky blinks and then his ma is sending him a text telling him they’re five minutes away, circling around for parking.

It ends up being her who brings Rebecca up, since it seems Pop found no luck with finding a space. And she’s only in for a few minutes, just so she’s not rushing out.

“Okay, Becks, make me a promise and tell me you won’t give your brother a hard time,” Ma says while they walk her out, down the stairs and out on the street. It’s still hot and sticky, a typical Brooklyn summer.  
  
“Yeah, otherwise I’m leaving you on the street,” Bucky cuts in. “I’m sure some nice family will want you.”   
  
Ma rolls her eyes. Rebecca sticks her tongue out at him. “I’m gonna be good,” Rebecca insists, in the same affectations Bucky has, the same his pop has. She leans into ma, hugs her around the waist, her lanky ponytail already coming apart. “I promise.”

Ma gives her a squeeze, and Bucky can already tell Rebecca’s a little more upset about her leaving than she lets on, so he pretends not to notice. Scans the street with his eyes and waves when he notices his pop pulling up. He shouts something over the sounds of the street, pays the driver honking at him to move no mind. At least he’s better at managing road rage than Bucky is.

He feels a tap on the shoulder, and when he sees his ma standing there. “I wish you were coming with us,” she says, and reaches up to hug him. “Thanks again, Buck.”“I’m not a west coast kinda guy, anyway,” Bucky says, puts his arms around her. “Love you. Tell Pop, too.”

“Aw, still so sweet,” she says, and tries to pinch his cheek, even when he says _ugh, Jesus, Ma_. “We’ll text you before we take off, zaychik.”

He’s twenty-five goddamn years old. At this point, she’ll never drop the nickname.

When she gets into the car, Bucky and Rebecca wave her and Pop off. Watch them drive away, and then they head back upstairs. Bucky carries Rebecca’s luggage, a purple suitcase and a plastic bag containing the few toiletries she has. Bucky sees a variety of colorful hair ties she’ll inevitably lose throughout the week.

Back inside, Bucky shuts the door behind them and opens the curtain he uses as a divider for his makeshift bedroom, sets Rebecca’s things on the floor.

When he comes out, he claps his hands, sets them on his hips. “Alright, squirt. World’s your oyster,” he says. “What do you wanna do?”

Rebecca slumps down on the couch, then drops face-first into a throw pillow and starts crying.

-

Bucky has no idea how to deal with people crying, especially kids, and especially Rebecca, because she rarely ever does. She gets angry, gets upset, sure, but Bucky can’t remember the last time he saw her like this.

“Hey, come on, Becks,” Bucky says, tries to sound soothing as he rubs her back, feels her breath hitch hard. He had a feeling the hand-off was too easy. Just the calm before the storm. “It’s only a week. They’re gonna be back before you know it.”  
He feels like he’s said this on a loop for the past twenty minutes, and it’s done nothing. Rebecca isn’t more or less miserable, just the same as she’s been. “I know,” she whines, muffled against the cushions. “But I miss them.”

Bucky was clingy at her age, too. Used to get down whenever his ma stood late at the office, or when his pop left not long after she came home, when he worked nights at whatever construction site he was assigned to and didn’t come back until the following afternoon.

The difference between Bucky and Rebecca is that she’s never been away from home for more than a night, so Bucky does his damnedest to mentally prepare himself for her being sullen the entire time they’re away.

He tells her about this for a while, tells her about the fact that he used to get down, too, when he had to go back home to Brighton Beach and stay with his grandparents, who Rebecca never had a chance to meet, when he was younger. Tells her that it always ended up being fun, and how it wasn’t long before he’d ask to spend days and days there, smushed into the tiny, smoky apartment with his cousins from his pop’s side who sometimes came over before they moved to Jersey, of all places.

That’s around the time Rebecca’s crying ceases, quiets down to the occasional sniffle. She still refuses to turn around, still stays tensed with her arms crossed.

“Hey, I’ll make you a deal,” Bucky says. “We can have a movie night. We’ll go around the corner, grab snacks and everything.”

When Rebecca turns to face him, her eyes are still red, cheeks tacky with tears. She sniffs hard, and Bucky’s chest twinges. “Really?” she asks, a little hoarse.

“Yeah, pal,” Bucky says, squeezes her shoulder, and then leans close. “Long as you wipe that snot off your face before we get outta here.”

That makes her laugh, even though she looks like she’d rather not. “Fine,” she says, rubs her eyes with her palms, tries to shake it off like it never happened at all. “But I get to pick the movie.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I kinda figured that,” he says. “So pick something good, huh? ‘Cause I’m not watching just anything. A movie needs _nuance_.”   
  
Rebecca wrinkles her nose. “What’s nuance?” she asks.

Despite being the one to mention it, Bucky realizes he isn’t completely sure.

“Well, you’ll know it when you see it,” he says, and stands up, jerks his head toward the bathroom. “Now, come on, it’s almost eight. I think we can make it a double feature if we go get our junk soon.”

Rebecca pushes her hair out of her face. It’s come out of its hair tie for good this time, and Bucky thinks he might go crazy if she doesn’t neaten it up. He’s lucky he knows how to manage long hair, but it might be something like a pipe dream to think Rebecca will let him near her with a brush.

“I call dibs on the first movie,” Rebecca says, and she already looks a little lighter, a little more like herself when a small smile stretches across her lips. “And I bet you’re gonna like it.”  
  
“We’ll just have to see,” Bucky says, and then she’s rushing past him to get to the bathroom.

-

The bodega is less than a block from Bucky’s apartment, and they have to pass Carter’s to get to it. From the corner of his eye, he can see them closing up, can catch a glimpse of Steve wiping tables down, but tries not to peer in.

It’s only a moment, and soon enough, Bucky is opening the door to the bodega with a chime. The manager greets him by name. It’s proof he’s been living in Bed-Stuy a while, he guesses. The people on his block recognize him, wave at him. When he orders takeout, the woman on the other end recognizes him by his voice. It makes it feel a little homey, at least, and he thought he might never adjust.

They browse around for a few minutes. Rebecca picks out plenty of things, some she actually likes and some that make absolutely no sense because Bucky _knows_ she would not eat dill pickle flavored potato chips. They end up grabbing popcorn, a few different boxes of candy, and drinks, and as they reach the register, Bucky leans down to Rebecca and stage-whispers, “Just don’t tell you-know-who I let you buy all this.”   
  
Rebecca snorts, then mimes zipping her mouth shut. “Secret’s safe with me,” she says. “I keep plenty of secrets. Ma dyes her hair now and I told her I wouldn’t tell _anyone_.”

She slaps a hand over her mouth, though, and Bucky can’t help laughing out loud at that. “Yeah, I definitely trust you now, Beck,” he chuckles as he fishes his wallet from his pocket. “Trust you with my life.”

  
-

It’s cooler outside now, still warm but breezy while they walk home on the same route they took with Rebecca’s hand clasped in Bucky’s as she tells him about one of the girls from her dance class, about how she knows how to make her feet touch the back of her head and how hard Rebecca has tried to learn how to do that to no avail.  
  
“And then there’s another girl, and her name’s Paisley,” Rebecca starts, talking animatedly with her free hand. “And then Angie told Brinley and then Brinley told _me_ that she was picking on Lily after class, but I didn’t stick around to see it.”

“Sounds like a lot of beef between these girls,” Bucky muses. “I really hope you’re not getting involved because—”

“Hi again,” Steve says, standing outside Carter’s.

Bucky’s throat goes dry as he stops in his tracks. “Oh,” he splutters out, feels himself smile, feels the back of his neck flare up with heat. “Hey. Yeah, hi again. What are you—are you heading home?”

“Yeah, I’m just waiting on Sharon since we take the same train,” Steve says, then he glances at Rebecca. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Nope,” Rebecca says, pops the 'p'. “Never.”

Bucky may or may not want to kill her. “Yeah, well, Steve, Rebecca, Rebecca, Steve,” he says, gestures between them. “We were just on our way back home.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re having a movie night,” Rebecca says. holds up her bag.

“Sounds like fun,” Steve says, then crosses his arms, something unreadable in his smile. “But, uh, I don’t mean to hold you guys up.”

“You’re fine,” Bucky says too quickly. Rebecca, who’s grown bored already, swings his arm absently with her own. “Just didn’t feel like passing by, y’know? I’m only around the corner, so it’s not the end of the world.”

“I figured you lived nearby,” Steve says, and Bucky has no clue what to make of that. No clue what to make of Steve actually thinking about him in a way that wasn’t related to Bucky ordering a drink. “I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around. Or Rebecca.”  
  
Bucky shrugs. “Guess I’m kind of a homebody these days,” Bucky says. “And Becca ain’t a coffee drinker, but I bet she wouldn’t mind a frozen hot chocolate.”   
  
That earns Bucky another smile. “It’s no Serendipity, but I make a pretty good one,” Steve says to Rebecca, then turns his eyes back to Bucky. “I guess I’ll see you?”   
  
Another crackle, another chip in the barrier Bucky’s always felt. “Yeah,” Bucky says, and there’s a swell in his chest with it. “Yeah, you will. I’ll see you around, Steve.”

“See you,” Steve says, and then as Bucky walks away, he hears Steve shout. “Enjoy the movie!”  
  
“Thanks!” Rebecca shouts back, thankfully before Bucky has a chance to say, _you too_. She turns back to Bucky, nudges him. “Hey, was that your friend?”

Bucky is embarrassed to say he’s reeling, ever so slightly, embarrassed to admit to himself his mood has skyrocketed.

“You know something?” he says. “I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zaychik/Зайчик = bunny 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

For the second time today, Bucky’s thoughts are scattered.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but once again, he’s finding himself overthinking their interaction. Finding himself wondering if Steve had just said hello to be nice, or because he wanted to.

That’s the confusing part, since it wasn’t as if Bucky initiated the conversation. It was Steve. Bucky’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t have bothered talking to him outside of work at all if he didn’t have to. He knows he would have barely made eye contact with any regulars at his old service jobs if he saw them in public.

His talk with Natasha keeps poking at him, so while he waits for the popcorn in the microwave, lets Rebecca figure out their first movie of the night, he texts her.

_what does it mean if someone says they’ll see you around_

A moment passes, three dots popping up on the screen before Natasha answers back.

**_is this about your nameless barista_ **

_saw him on the way back from the bodega_

_he said hi first and asked if he’ll see me around. so either he means me coming to carters w/ becks or…yeah i dont know_

**_you cannot be that fucking stupid_ **

_???_

**_he keeps looking for an excuse to talk to you because he likes you_ **

**_other ppl are also allowed to be awkward in case you didnt know_ **

_i don’t even know if he’s gay_

_or bi_

_or whatever_

**_whats his name_ **

_…_

_his name is steve_

**_wait_ **

**_WAIT_ **

**_what does he look like_ **

_blond?? skinny?? kind of short and wears glasses sometimes??_

**_does he have a tattoo of a sun on his forearm_ **

Bucky wrinkles his nose, something like anxiety stirring in his gut. Does Steve have a tattoo? Bucky isn’t sure. He didn’t really pay much attention, but—

Oh, hell, he _does_. Bucky remembers a glimpse of it on a day Steve wore short sleeves, the ink dark against his skin.

Bucky responds quickly.

_what the FUCK nat_

_how do you know him_

_nevermind don’t answer that_

_i’m calling you now_

The line barely has a chance to ring before Natasha answers it. “Hello again,” she says.  
  
“Why,” Bucky starts through gritted teeth. “Did you _never_ mention this before?”

“Well, genius, that little tease is the most you’ve ever told me about him,” Natasha says coolly. “And, if you’re really nice to me, I’ll give you an explanation. See if we’re actually talking about the same person.”  
  
“How many Steves do _you_ know under the age of forty?” Bucky asks irritably. The microwave beeping jolts him out of his stupor, and he pulls the popcorn out, thankful he didn’t burn it this time. “Jesus, Nat, this is just—”   
  
“Weird?” Natasha finishes. “I know. Guess it’s a smaller world than we think.”

Bucky sighs. “Fine, you win,” he says as he rummages through the cabinets, finds the mixing bowl he uses for just about everything but mixing. “Let’s compare.”

“Compare,” Natasha echoes, and then huffs. “Well, the Steve I’m thinking of is twenty-four, blond, about my height, and a teacher at Art’s, so whoever he is, you’ll bump into him on Wednesday.”

“He’s a dancer?”  
  
“Artist,” Natasha says. “He’s only teaching part-time, so he’s here two, three times a week.”

“Just—” Bucky taps his foot uncomfortably, tries to busy himself with emptying the bag of popcorn into the bowl without scorching his fingers. “Has he ever mentioned a second job? Or—God, I feel like an idiot asking about this.”  
  
“I’ll let you know when you actually start being stupid,” Natasha says. “Carry on.”   
  
“He ever mention any names, anyone he knows?” Bucky asks.

“He’s mentioned a roommate and friends, but he’s never named them. And...” A pause, then, “Don’t kill me, but he did say he works at a coffee shop. He just never said where.”

Of _course_ he does.

“Fuck me,” Bucky blurts out, and Rebecca whips around to look at him. Bucky points at her. “Hey. You pretend you didn’t hear that.”  
  
Rebecca rolls her eyes.

“Aw, aren’t you just the model older brother,” Natasha says.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Bucky says, and leaves the kitchen, sets the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table before he retreats behind the curtains leading to his bedroom, then into the bathroom, which has a door, at least. Gives him the illusion of privacy. “Look, I can’t talk for long, but it—that sounds like Steve. And if it’s him, it’s gonna be really fucking weird to him if he sees me there.”

“Weird that you’re taking your sister to ballet class?” Natasha asks. “Wow. I know I have a tendency to be paranoid, but I think you’re on another level, Barnes.”

“Who said I’m paranoid?” Bucky asks, joking, and it makes Natasha laugh, warm and low. “Sorry I keep railing on you about this. I promise I’ll have something better to talk to you about on Wednesday. Me, you, and the pipsqueak can grab food somewhere. And you can bring Yelena, too.”  
  
“I’m _not_ bringing Yelena,” Natasha says. “I’m not subjecting either of you to her.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Nat,” Bucky says. “If she was that bad, you wouldn’t be living with her, and you wouldn’t be stuck on her, either.”

“Don’t you have a kid to watch?”

“Don’t you have a…?” Bucky starts, then gives up. “Goddamn it.”

“ _Goodnight_ ,” Natasha sing-songs, and hangs up before Bucky can say anything else.

God.

Bucky scrubs his hands over his face, forces himself to pointedly not think about the overload of information, the possibility of running into Steve outside Carter’s _again_ , and what the hell he’s going to do if he does.

He shoves out of the bathroom, kicks off his shoes and leaves them at the end of the bed, tries to look as casual as possible as he parts the curtains to the living room.

“Find a movie yet?” he asks.

“Have you ever seen Matilda?” Rebecca asks around a mouthful of popcorn.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe once, when I was like your age,” he says. “But it’s your pick, anyway, kid. Let’s watch it.”

He shuts the lights off when Rebecca clicks play and joins her on the couch, props his socked feet on the coffee table, snorts to himself when Rebecca does the same.

-

They finish Matilda, and somehow Bucky convinces Rebecca to change into pajamas, to brush her teeth so they don’t have to bicker about it at midnight or hell, later than that. He probably shouldn’t let her stay up as late as he’s allowing her, but the last thing he wants is for her to get down again. It’s better off to just take her mind off of being homesick for now.

“Aren’t you gonna pick something?” Rebecca asks.

Well, Bucky didn’t think that through.

It’s not like there’s a lot he can choose from. Anything he’d go for would either be uninteresting to Rebecca, or definitely shouldn’t be watched in front of her.

And then it comes to him.

“Ever see Back to the Future?” he asks.

-

Rebecca falls asleep an hour into the movie.

Bucky’s seen it enough times to know what’s going on without looking at the screen, so he busies himself with cleaning up the mess of wrappers off the table, dumping popcorn seeds into the trash, washing dishes as quietly as he can manage.

It’s finished quickly, and he doesn’t bother jostling Rebecca. She’s too old for him to carry her to the bed, and he knows her well enough to know that once she finds a spot, she won’t want to move.

So, Bucky grabs the throw off the back of the couch, covers her with it, and shuts the TV off before he goes into his room. He opens his draft and stares at it for a while, thinks of what to write, but it isn’t long before the glare of his laptop is fading in and out, forcing him to slide it to the desk before he’s tumbling into sleep, lulled by the sounds of life just outside the window.

-

Bucky wakes too early for his liking, and thinks on the fact that he’s not going to make it through today without at least three or four cups of coffee; from his _own_ machine, thank you very much. He has no intentions of going to Carter’s, especially if the thought of talking to Steve is even more daunting than it was two days ago.

He showers in cold water, does his damnedest to make himself feel more awake. It won’t be too hot today, and he doesn’t have much to do when it comes to work just yet, so he has the vaguest plan of going out for the day taking root in his head. He doesn’t bother drying his hair, just pulls it up into a wet bun for now and changes his clothes, goes into the kitchen to brew coffee, setting his laptop at the tiny dinner table and reopening his draft, roughly scrubbing his hands over his face.

 _Please don’t wake up_ , he thinks, glancing at Rebecca from the corner of his eye. He woke up with a surprising burst of inspiration, with the hazy idea of how to tackle a heavier, emotional scene he’s been struggling with since he first thought of it, and if he doesn’t jump at the chance to write it down, he knows he’ll forget to do it later, knows how quickly it will fade away.

-

The sun rises higher, fills the apartment with light. Bucky’s hair dries in stubborn waves, curls behind his ears as he writes more than he expects, speeding through the scene with fervor he didn’t think he’d have. He finds himself pleased with it, another bit of weight shoved off his shoulders.

It lightens his mood, and he doesn’t even mind it when Rebecca starts stirring on the couch after a little while. He finishes another scene just as she sits up and stretches. Now, Bucky’s stomach is hollow with hunger.

“Morning,” he calls, catching a typo and saving his progress before he shuts his laptop, leans back in his chair to look over at Rebecca. She shoves her hair, even frizzier and even more tangled than before, out of her eyes, and spares Bucky a half-hearted wave, a mumbled _g’morning_ , since surprisingly, she’s not much of a talker when she wakes up.

Another trait she gets from their father. It was funny like that. Rebecca looked more like Ma, with her bony face and dark eyes, but acted more like Pop. That was switched around for Bucky, and he and his pop looking alike was only enhanced by their age difference, by the fact that despite working as hard as he did, Pop looked young for forty-three. Ma, too.

“Did you finish the movie?” Rebecca asks around a yawn as she stands up.

“Nah, I conked out, too.” Bucky shrugs. “Hey, if you go wash up now, I’ll have breakfast finished once you’re out.”  
  
Rebecca disappears into the back of the apartment a moment later. Bucky can faintly hear the faucet turn on, and he does end up working on breakfast.

It isn’t much, far from extravagant. Just toast, eggs—scrambled for Rebecca and sunny-side up for himself—, and the fruit he has left on the counter. His phone buzzes with a text from his ma, telling him they’re taking off, and he sends one back, even if she won’t see it for hours.

When Rebecca comes out, slides into the seat opposite Bucky’s, she’s clean, but her hair is still in tangles.

“Ain’t those knots pulling on your brain?” Bucky asks, stirs a corner of the toast into his yolks before he takes a bite.

Rebecca hums, indifferent, and grabs a strawberry from the tupperware between them.

“Well, I don’t know if they’re gonna let you into a museum like that,” Bucky says nonchalantly, and _that_ gets her attention, stops her mid-bite.

“What museum?” Rebecca asks.  
  
“First of all, it’s _which_ museum,” Bucky clarifies, stabs what’s left of his eggs. “And I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m askin’ you.”  
  
“Can we go to the Met?”  
  
Bucky almost inhales his bite of food. “The Met?” he echoes. “Since when do you like art?”

“Since now,” Rebecca says. “My dance school isn’t _just_ a dance school. They have art classes, too. I think I wanna take those, too.”   
  
Bucky’s glad his parents aren’t worrying about money these days, because he can’t fathom how much both classes would be, and _God_ , that’s bringing Bucky an even likelier chance to bump into—

No, he’s not thinking about that today.

“Okay, the Met,” Bucky says, pushes all thoughts of Steve from his mind. “The Met it is. We’ll make a day out of it. Just go get dre—”

“You got it!” Rebecca shouts and is already running for the bathroom.

Bucky pours another cup of coffee, hopes it gives him the energy he needs.

-

It isn’t long before Rebecca is dressed, her face falls when she walks into the living room, when she sees Bucky sitting on the floor with a hairbrush, hair ties, and a bottle of hairspray.

“No,” Rebecca says with a sharp shake of her head. “No way.”

“Fine,” Bucky says lightly. “Guess you can kiss the Met goodbye.”

Rebecca stares daggers at him for a long moment, jaw clenched tight, but then she huffs and she sinks to the floor in front of him. “Just don’t pull like Ma does,” she mutters.

“I’ll do my best,” Bucky says, and gets to work.

-

Bucky is lucky he has long hair and knows how to work with it, and it seems that Rebecca’s hair is about as stubborn and thick as his own. He works at the snarls as gently as he can, until the brush can go more than a few inches without getting caught in one of her knots.

Despite that, they bicker through it. Rebecca shouts _ow_ at the slightest tug, Bucky tells her to pipe down before the neighbors call the cops, but in the end, her hair ends up smooth. It’s long enough that it brushes her hips, so Bucky is more than surprised it didn’t take forever.

Rebecca blows a stray curl from her face. “Can you braid it?” she asks.

“What do I look like, a hairstylist?” Bucky asks incredulously, then glances at the hair ties balanced on his knee. “Yeah, sure, I can do braids.”

It’s a ridiculous memory, being halfway drunk at Natasha’s apartment during some get-together where Bucky was the only guy there, save for Clint and Frank, and some girl he’d never met took it upon herself to teach him how to do a french braid, and he managed to figure it out. Made him test it on her, on Nat, and he didn’t even attempt Yelena because the moment he opened his mouth, she said _come any closer and i will break your little fingers_.

The point is, Bucky can do a french braid.

Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s staying in place and Becca’s hair looks miles better, and thankfully isn’t sitting in its usual lanky ponytail she insists on doing herself.

“And now, you don’t look like you’re being neglected,” Bucky says, pats her on the shoulder. “Yay for you.”

“You have’ta help me with my bun before class tomorrow, too,” Rebecca says instead of thanking him. “Do you know how to make those, too?”  
  
“I have my hands and the power of YouTube, so we might make it out okay,” Bucky quips, pulls himself off the floor.. “Now get your butt up and we’ll get out of here.”

-

The subway isn’t far from Bucky’s apartment, so they don’t have to walk for very long before they descend the stairs to the station.

On the train, Becca is buzzing. Bucky lends her one of his earbuds and they listen to music to pass the time, try to stay busy for the forty-minute ride. They’re only one stop away from their destination when his phone buzzes with a text from Natasha.

**_i’m 99% sure a certain someone mentioned you today_ **

**_all good things ;)_ **

As much as Bucky wants to answer, as much as he wants to pry, wants to ask what makes Natasha so sure, he grits his teeth and says he’ll get in touch with her later.

It seems even though Bucky’s going a day without seeing him, Steve has found a way to get his attention all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy things are a-changing!!
> 
> also, i actually...really like this chapter? and im shocked that im updating consistently WOWEE
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!! more to come soon!! and more stevebucky interaction ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Luckily, it’s free for Rebecca to get into the Met, and since they’re not out of state, Bucky doesn’t have to pay too much for admission, but he still wishes Rebecca chose something free, or hell, at least something enjoyable.

Bucky’s not much of an art guy. He can appreciate it once in a while, he doesn’t dislike it, he just doesn’t _get it_. He can’t ever seem to find meanings in pieces, and usually finds himself staring at the paintings blankly, not paying as much attention as he should.

So, when Rebecca tugs him from room to room, it’s no skin off his nose. He doesn’t mind the way she breezes through everything, doesn’t mind when she spins some story about a painting she doesn’t recognize, and makes up a few of his own. They quietly make fun of a few sculptures, try not to make too much of a ruckus with it.

Unlike Bucky, Rebecca does seem to be interested in what she’s seeing, eyes scanning over the paintings, over the titles, the little paragraphs beneath them intently. A woman taps Bucky on the shoulder after he takes a picture to send to his parents, and says how nice it is that his daughter is interested in art at her age.

“Oh, she’s not—“ Bucky begins, and then gives up, nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The mix-up happens more than he’d like to admit. Their age difference, Bucky looking a little older with his beard, his hair, maybe a tad too sleep-deprived, it all causes plenty of pieces to fall into place for people, but usually leads them to the wrong conclusion.

They kill time in a gift shop, where everything is as overpriced as Bucky expected it to be, and then Rebecca finally gets bored and asks if they can leave.

Bucky’s not ashamed to admit he’s relieved, and when they spend the rest of the afternoon in Central Park, sat on The Great Lawn looking over the city, it ends up being a nice day.

When they finish, Rebecca sets her sights on a playground in the midst of the park, so Bucky finds a bench, pulls his phone out, and calls Natasha.

“Oh, so you’re alive,” she says in lieu of hello. “I thought that text might have sent you into cardiac arrest.”  
  
“That would have been pretty uncomfortable for everyone else on the subway,” Bucky says, squints against the sun as he watches Rebecca, already in the midst of some sort of game with a few other kids. “Becca wanted to go to the Met.”   
  
Natasha hums. “Cultured,” she remarks. “Unlike some people I know.”

“And to think I was gonna ask if you wanted to meet us somewhere later on,” Bucky says.

“My shift doesn’t start until nine tonight,” Natasha says. “So, unless you want to bring Rebecca to a hookah bar filled with sweaty Russian guys—”  
  


“She’s already stuck with one this week,” Bucky says. “And you know, you’re leading one hell of a double life. Ballet teacher moonlighting as a bartender.”

“Are you coming over or not?” Natasha asks.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, stands up to make his way toward the playground. “Is Yelena gonna come in yelling about soap again?”  
  
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Natasha says. “She chose to work at Lush, so that’s her own fault.”   
  
It doesn’t matter Bucky doesn’t think he can stay home. He’s too antsy, and knowing Rebecca, she might be, too. Even when they’ve spent most of the day out.

“Fine,” Bucky says, thinks on it for a moment, taps his foot on the ground. “See you in an hour?”

“Then I’ll see you soon,” Natasha says.

“ _Wait_ ,” Bucky blurts out. “What you texted me earlier—”   
  
“You’ve been patient this long, think of it as a reward when you get here,” Natasha says.

When the call ends, Bucky shuts his eyes, leans his head back toward the sun before he sticks his thumb and forefinger between his lips, whistles sharp and loud as he waves Rebecca down.

-

The hour it takes to get to Brighton Beach is long, but Bucky doesn’t mind it much. When they reach their stop, the air coming off the ocean is blissfully cool. He can smell food wafting from a stand, the headiness of roses from a flower shop, heat coming off cement. It all smells of home, brings something like calm over him as they walk to Natasha’s apartment.

“You know, we used to live down here, Ma, Pop, and I,” Bucky says as they walk. “Way before your time. We only moved to Crown Heights when I was ten, ‘cause of Ma’s work.”  
  
Brighton Beach was called Little Odessa for a reason. Bucky’s old neighborhood was mainly Russian, and his family was one of the many who lived there, even if their name wasn’t exactly the same as everyone else’s. It wasn’t long before the Barantsevs became the Barneses, wasn’t long before Bucky’s pop came into the picture, and things became easier.

“What was it like?” Rebecca asks, so Bucky tells her.

He answers her questions of if he liked living here, asks if he went to Coney Island every day (obviously not), and why haven’t Ma and Pop taught _her_ Russian yet.

“Well, maybe we like havin’ secrets from you,” Bucky teases, and Rebecca immediately takes the bait, pressing him about it as they climb the two flights leading to Natasha’s apartment.

“Aw, come _on_ ,” Rebecca whines, flushed with heat. “Can’t you teach me something?”   
  
“Sure, I got one,” Bucky snaps as he knocks on the door, and before _Закрой свой рот_ can leave his mouth, Yelena opens the door.

“Yakov,” she says, and then her eyes flicker down to Rebecca. “You, I’ve never met.”

“I’m Becca,” Rebecca says. “Bucky’s sister.”

“She’s eight, Lenochka,” Natasha says, sliding up behind her. “So do your best not to freak her out.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Yelena grits out, and if anyone is intimidated, it’s Bucky. “Going to freak her out.”

As they move inside, which is much cooler than the hallway, thank Christ, Bucky says, “You know, my name isn’t even Yakov.”  
  
“I hate James, and I hate Bucky even more,” Yelena says. “So, I call you Yakov. Get over it.”   
  
Bucky arches a brow at her. “Fair enough,” he says.

They’ve had the same back and forth for a couple of years now. He thinks they both prefer it to small talk.

When he flops on the couch by Natasha, Liho twists from under her legs and tilts her head at him, already knowing he’s going to indulge her in affection.

Rebecca gasps when she sees her. “You have a _cat_?”

“Sure do,” Natasha says. “You can play with her, if you want.”

“And don’t worry,” Yelena says, clicks her tongue to get Liho to come closer. “She doesn’t scratch. Come sit. I’ll show you.”  
  
Bucky isn’t sure if he’s confused or relieved when Yelena sinks down on the floor beside Rebecca. He locks eyes with Natasha and mouths _what the hell?_

She shakes her head, obviously doing her best not to let Yelena see her bewildered smile.

-

It’s a slow, surprisingly easy evening.

Rebecca talks Yelena’s ear off, and Yelena somehow lets her. When Rebecca tells her about ballet class, Yelena asks if the girls are mean to her, and then leans close to tell her something Bucky can’t hear. Bucky makes a mental note of asking what the _hell_ she told Rebecca, but Rebecca doesn’t seem to mind whatever it is.

The sun dips low in the sky. They eat dinner at the kitchen counter and then Rebecca ends up occupied with Liho in the living room, while Bucky sits on the cramped terrace with Natasha and Yelena, a few empty beer bottles on the table between them.  
  
“Okay, I’ve made you wait long enough,” Natasha says after a while, and sits forward.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” Bucky says, takes a swig of his beer. “What made you think he was talking about me?”  
  
“A few things,” Natasha explains. “But mainly—”   
  
“Enough suspense, I’m _sick_ of the suspense,” Yelena cuts in, and takes over. “He mentioned your stupid name and no one else has that stupid of a name. End of story.”

Bucky chokes on his beer.

Natasha looks offended. “You couldn’t let me tell him the story?” she says. “Really?”

“That is not ninety-nine percent sure,” Bucky croaks, swallowing hard. “That’s one-hundred percent sure. What the hell, Nat?”

“It was getting repetitive,” Yelena says, ignoring Bucky completely. “This is no soap opera, Natalia.”  
  
“What,” Bucky says, clears his throat, loud and gruff, into his forearm. “Did he say?”

Yelena tilts her head at Natasha. “Well?”  
  
Natasha huffs. “So, what I meant to tell you was that I talked to him after work,” she says. “I asked him if he was seeing anyone, just to make sure he wasn’t, and he said no, he said he thinks he’s already interested in someone, but didn’t know how to go about it. So, when I asked what their name was—”

“And he said Bucky,” Yelena grimaces.“He said Bucky,” Natasha repeats. “He didn’t give me anything else, but he told me he works at Carter’s. I told him that I knew you, I told him you’d be at the school tomorrow. I told him to talk to you if he sees you, and _now_ , you owe me. You really owe me, Barnes.”

It might be amplified by the alcohol in his system, but Bucky’s heart is pounding hard and fast against his ribcage with the fact that he was _right_ , that he wasn’t relying on baseless wondering.

Hell, it doesn’t feel real.

“Yeah,” Bucky says after a long moment. “Yeah, sure, whatever you want me to—thank you, Nat. Really. I don’t know how to thank you.”  
  
There’s a glint in Natasha’s eye, a slow smile creeping up her mouth. “You’re smarter than you look. You’ll figure something out.”

The thing is, Bucky might.  
  
He just might.

-

When they finally go back inside, Bucky washes the few dishes in the sink while Yelena is drying them, and even though he’s still reeling, he’s aware that he has a minute away from Natasha.

“So,” Yelena says. “Natasha found your boyfriend.”  
  
Bucky huffs a laugh, feeling much more at ease than he did earlier. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he says.

“Yet,” Yelena says, which sounds reassuring until she pins him in place with a glare. “Unless you do something stupid.”

“Gonna try my best not to do that,” he says, passes her a plate to dry, then glances behind him. Natasha is sitting in the living room with Rebecca, Liho between them. “Hey, maybe it ain’t my place to tell you this, but—”

“Careful, Yakov,” Yelena says slowly.

“It’s not bad news,” Bucky says, wonders how to phrase it and shakes his head. “Look, Natasha likes you. I don’t know if you know, but she does. I think she always has.”  
  
Yelena stares at him.

She stares for a long time, and then finally says, “You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not,” Bucky insists. “I’m really not. Do with that what you will, because we both know she was never gonna say anything about it.”

Yelena’s brows knit together, and she makes a face Bucky can’t quite read before she dries the last dish, turns to lean back against the counter, eyes fixed on the living room.

“You didn’t hear that from me, by the way,” Bucky adds. “If you end up doing anything about it.”  
  
“Then don’t expect me to thank you and tip off Natasha,” Yelena says, still looking forward.

“Deal,” Bucky says. “And I won’t tell anyone you’re not the worst person I’ve ever met.”  
  
Yelena scoffs, rolls her eyes, but Bucky can see the corners of her mouth turning up. “Don’t fool yourself,” she says. “I still prefer your sister to you.”   
  
“Everyone does.” Bucky rinses his hands and shuts the water off, then turns to his head to Rebecca. “Ready to get out of here, squirt?”   
  
-

On the train back, Rebecca leans against his arm, spaced out. If Bucky’s exhausted, she must be, too.

He leans his head back against the window, shuts his eyes for a moment, drunk on too many beers and the thought of whatever tomorrow might bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Закрой свой рот = close your mouth/shut up
> 
> this update was kinda short imo, since its kind of a filler, but more fun is coming soon and steve is too!!! oh how i have missed him and oh how excited i am for whats to come
> 
> also im now officially tempted to write a yelenat fic bc i love my girls dearly but do NOT hold me to it bc i am the worst with planning
> 
> anyway thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

“Uh-huh,” Rebecca says, Bucky’s laptop on the floor in front of her while he braids back wet hair that smells faintly like his own shampoo. “We went to the Met, then Central Park, then—ow!”

“I didn’t pull that hard,” Bucky argues, cranes his neck so he can get a glimpse of his parents over Skype. “Just so you guys know.”

“He _did_ ,” Rebecca stage-whispers.

“What _ever_.”

“Wow, it sounds like fun over there,” Ma deadpans, squished close to Pop on the couch.

Bucky mutters, just low enough for Rebecca to hear, “Ask them how Napa is.”  
  
Rebecca does, and the conversation goes on. She talks for a while, tells them about the rest of the day, about watching movies, and what else they might do during the next few days. When she slips away to brush her teeth, Bucky grabs his laptop moves to the couch.

“Yeah, she’s been good, but she was pretty upset, the first night,” he says, rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Just been keeping her busy, but I dunno if it was just a one time thing or…”  
  
“She’ll be fine, Buck,” Pop says, waves his hand. “You know her, she bounces back quick, even when she’s upset. For all you know, she’ll want to stay with you even longer.”   
  
“I bet he’d love that, George,” Ma says. “You know, maybe we’ll stay another week.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Wow, you guys are so funny. Really, so funny. My sides are killing me.”

They don’t talk for long, and the night seems to end quickly after the video call does. Bucky gives Rebecca his bed and resigns himself to the couch, tries to think about getting some work done despite the exhaustion pulling at his bones.

“Night, Becks,” he calls, peeks through the half opened curtains.

She doesn’t reply, and Bucky can see her turned over in the faint glow of the bedside lamp, can hear rain pattering down, the rumble of thunder growing ever closer. She’s already asleep, or at least on her way there.

Bucky does his best to get comfortable, fidgeting around. He scrunches his knees up, and reopens his laptop, tries to get himself into the right frame of mind.

-

It’s hard to muster up any motivation, but Bucky writes what he can, just to get something accomplished, and when he falls asleep, it’s almost restless, leaves him blinking awake a few times with a cramp in his neck. He wonders, vaguely, why he hasn’t looked into a new couch if this one is so uncomfortable.

It’s around the time he’s actually, properly asleep that he feels someone shaking his shoulder, then lightly slapping at his face.

“Go’way” Bucky slurs, tries to turn away from whoever it is. “Sleepin’.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Rebecca hisses, and he cracks an eye open, finds her almost nose to nose with him. “Wake up already.”

Bucky groans, forces himself to sit up. “What time is it?” he asks around a yawn, feeling like his throat is filled with gravel.

Rebecca shrugs. “I dunno,” she mutters. “Late.”

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Bucky says, then pauses when his eyes adjust, when he gets a look at her face.

Still, he can barely see Rebecca, but she’s drawn tight, like she was yesterday. She shakes her head, opens her mouth to speak just as thunder rumbles, crashes heavily. It has her just about jumping out of her skin, and that’s when Bucky figures it out.

“Since when are you afraid of storms?” he asks, and leans closer, elbows on his knees. “Becca, come on, pal.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Rebecca argues. “I just—” 

Another crash of thunder. Rebecca clutches Bucky’s wrist hard enough for it to hurt, and doesn’t let go, palm damp with sweat, nails digging into his skin.

Bucky doesn’t remember her ever having a fear of thunderstorms, or much of anything. Sure, maybe she flinched at a particularly loud rumble of thunder once in a while, but he can't recall her ever actually being afraid. Up until now, at least. 

Maybe she’s changed more than Bucky initially thought she did. He knew her, understood her, up until the age of six. The kid staying over, the kid he sees once every Sunday during dinner at the apartment he grew up in, is someone else entirely. New interests, new fears, a new Rebecca appearing right under his nose.

“Alright, listen,” Bucky says, gentle, and doesn’t try to attempt prying Rebecca’s hand off his arm. He reaches beside him with his free hand to click the lamp on, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “We have two options here. We can either figure out why it scares you, or we can figure out how to make you feel better. It’s up to you.”

Rebecca says, just loud enough to be heard over the rain, “Can we just hang out till it’s over?”

-

Bucky checks the radar, sees the storm is only supposed to last another half hour. It’s barely one in the morning, and as they talk, as Bucky does his best to distract Rebecca, the rain lets up. The thunder isn’t so strong. Bucky barely notices the flashes of lightning flooding through the windows.  
  
Thankfully, it’s the only storm this week. It’ll rain, and it’s going to be wet for most of tomorrow, which means they might get soaked on the way to Rebecca’s class, but he tries not to think too much about tomorrow, tries to focus on Rebecca, who’s still jumpy despite the storm passing over them.

After a while, Bucky hums slowlu, tips his head back. “You think you wanna try getting some sleep?” he asks, still drifting in and out of awareness. “Showin’ up to class half-asleep with guck in your eyes doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun, if you ask me.”  
  
“Class starts at 2:45,” Rebecca says, and Bucky sees her shrug in the bluish light of the TV, long since muted. “I can sleep in.”   
  
A surprised laugh bursts out of Bucky. “Yeah, _you_ can,” he says. “But being an adult and your personal chauffer, I can’t really do that. Storm’s passing anyway, thunder’s over and done with, so what’s stopping you?”   
  
Rebecca says nothing.

It’s a trait they share. They would rather stay silent than admit to being upset, anxious, anything that would require them to spit out whatever it is eating at them. Bucky would be lying if he said that even now, he didn’t feel like whatever he needed to say was lodged in his throat when someone asked what was bothering him, like he had to force the words out.

“You're still homesick, I guess,” Bucky says, and Rebecca just leans back against the couch, mirrors Bucky as she lets her head thunk against the cushions.

“Guess so,” Rebecca says quietly. Bucky watches her pick at a thread on one of the throw pillows. “I was fine till Ma and Pop called.”  
  
“Well, they’re gonna call,” Bucky says, shuts his eyes, just for a few seconds. “You’re their kid. I bet if they could, they’d check in five times a day.”   
  
Bucky has a funny feeling they would, but between the cell reception being so spotty at their hotel, the wi-fi being even worse, it seems like they’ll only talk in snatches. He’s not sure if that’s easier or harder on Rebecca.

She huffs, and then she meets Bucky’s eye. “If I ask you something, are you gonna make fun of me?”

Bucky hums. “Depends on what it is,” he says, just because it cuts through the tension, makes Rebecca hide the smile she’s trying to mask, obviously more in favor of sulking.

“So,” Rebecca starts, exhales sharply. “Sometimes, Pop stays with me for a while till I fall asleep.”

“He used to do that with me, too, Becks,” Bucky says, shrugs.

“And sometimes, he sings.”

Bucky smiles faintly. That’s an old memory, he couldn’t have been more than four or five when his pop did that. “Lemme guess,” he says. “Fly Me to the Moon?”  
  
Rebecca rests her chin on her knees, arms wrapped tight around them, but there’s a spark in her eyes. “How’d you know?”   
  
“Your old man’s got a habit of repeating himself,” Bucky says, then pulls himself off the couch. “And I’m not as good of a singer as he is, but I can try my best.” 

-

The only light comes from between the slats of the blinds on Bucky’s windows, a faint orange glow that casts itself over the bedroom in stripes. When Rebecca crawls into bed, he sits next to her, leans back against the headboard.

They don’t talk too much, since it seems that having someone close by makes Rebecca feel comfortable enough to turn over, her back to Bucky. It’s not hard to tell she’s on her way back to sleep. Bucky glances at the digital clock on his nightstand, sees it’s already two in the morning.

Christ. He’d really like to get some sleep.

“Becks?” Bucky says quietly, just in case she’s drifted off. “You awake?”  
  
“Kinda,” Rebecca says, low and muffled. “Don’t go yet.”

This exchange happens at least three more times. Bucky thinks he dozes a few times, then he becomes sure of that fact when he finds himself lying on his stomach. He cracks one eye open just as Rebecca turns over hard enough to make the bed bounce. She looks right at him, and hell, Bucky knows this. Knows being on the edge of sleep but unable to get there.

“Fine,” Bucky mutters. “You win.”

God, here goes nothing.

“ _Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars,_ ” he begins, voice low and hoarse. “ _Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mar_ —hey, quit laughing, I’m tryin’ my best here.”   
  
“I’m not,” Rebecca giggles. “Sorry. Keep goin’.”   
  
“If I can remember all the words, sure,” Bucky says, and maybe he skips over some words when they slip through the cracks, but he finishes the song, notices the room has become suspiciously quiet.

“Thanks, Buck,” Rebecca says, faint.  
  
“No problem, squirt,” Bucky says, and before he knows it, he’s drifting off, lulled by the sound of the rain.

-

When Bucky wakes up, it’s as if his body is moving before his brain is aware of it, leaving him thrashing out of the sheets, sitting upright. “Shit,” he whispers, knowing it’s already late because it _feels_ late. His eyes are dry, body aching, head feeling like it weighs a ton.

When he glances at the clock, it’s a quarter to one.

“ _Shit,_ ” he repeats, tries to keep his voice down with it. He shoves his hair from his eyes, forces himself to stand, to peek his head through the curtain. “Rebecca?”

Rebecca’s sat on the couch with the TV on, eating a sandwich. Her hair, surprisingly is brushed, and she’s dressed. “Mornin’,” she says around a mouthful.

“You’re up,” Bucky says.

Rebecca nods. “Yep,” she says.  
  
“You’re eating breakfast.”   
  
“Actually, it’s lunch," she says, and holds up her sandwich. "Want one? It's bologna and cheese."   
  
Bucky knits his brows together. “How long have you been up?”   
  
“Since nine,” Rebecca says, and Bucky groans.

“God, you should have woke me up,” he says, and pads into the kitchen to make coffee. He feels a stab of guilt when he finds a half-eaten bowl of cereal in the sink. “Sorry, kid. Really. I’m supposed to be keepin’ an eye on you.”  
  
“Hey, I’m not dumb, you know,” Rebecca insists loudly. Or maybe it isn’t loud at all, and Bucky’s headache is just amplifying it. “I know how to take care of myself.”   
  
“I know that,” Bucky says, and decides to make this pot stronger than he usually would. “I know, just—look, I’m gonna get you to class on time, I promise, just give me a few minutes. Ten minutes tops.”   
  
He doesn’t wait for Rebecca to respond. He turns the machine on, and beelines for the bathroom, turns the shower on, and splashes cold water on his face at the sink, tries his hardest to wake himself up.

When Bucky glances in the mirror, his fatigue shows in his face. His face is puffy, creased from being buried in a pillow, hair sticking up in all directions, tangled and frizzy, eyes shadowy. He’s never fared well with his schedule being messed with.

At least he knows he’ll get Rebecca to class, even if that means he has to deal with the possibility of Steve seeing him looking vaguely hungover.

-

It takes two mugs of coffee to make him feel vaguely human. He’s sure he still looks like death warmed over, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

Bucky eats the final section from his orange, swallows another gulp of coffee. “Clock’s ticking, Becks, we gotta go!” he shouts. “I’ll do your hair on the subway!”  
  
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Rebecca yells back. Bucky hears something thud, then hears her bag zip before she’s running in the living room with a hoodie over her pale yellow leotard on, sitting on the floor to tug her sneakers on.

Bucky grabs her bag, slings it over his shoulder. “Shoes are in here?” he asks, feels for his keys, his phone in his pocket. His hair is still damp, but it’s only going to get wet all over again in the rain. “Other...ballet stuff?”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Rebecca mutters, knotting her laces tight. 

“Then let’s get outta here,” Bucky says, and helps her to her feet.

-

Bucky does, indeed, do Rebecca’s hair on the subway, and manages to get it smooth against the back of her head despite the constant motion, manages to twist it up into a bun and figures out where to put the bobby pins after only a few seconds of being stumped. 

By the end of it, he pats Rebecca on the shoulder and lets her turn around, hands her his phone so she can see herself on camera as a makeshift mirror. It’s a little crooked, but it’s good enough. 

“You think I should become a hairstylist?” Bucky asks. “I’m getting kinda good at it. I can keep practicing on you.”  
  
“No thanks,” Rebecca says, grimacing.

“I’ll pay you,” Bucky offers. “Five bucks an hour.”  
  
"Ten."

Bucky pretends to consider that. “You're too expensive, so maybe I’ll just practice on myself,” he muses, pulls his own hair into a loose knot. “I got plenty of hair, anyway."

“What if it starts turnin’ grey like Ma’s?” Rebecca asks.  
  
“It will if you keep talking," Bucky says.

-

It’s still not enough time. They’re dashing out of the subway and through the station, onto the street dodging pedestrians and squeezing past people, but they’re at the doors of the school luckily, checking in, and then finally, waiting outside Rebecca’s classroom.

Bucky is more breathless than he’d like to admit, a stitch stabbing into his side as he wipes rain water from his forehead, swallows hard, exhales hard through his nose. He looks around, subconsciously searching for the red flash of Natasha’s hair, but only seeing a rush of girls around Rebecca’s age in matching yellow leotards.

“You see any of your friends over there?” he asks Rebecca.  
  
Rebecca is shrugging off her hoodie, dropping it beside her before she starts tugging her sneakers off, swiftly replacing them with ballet slippers, then she grins, and is running over to a couple of girls before Bucky can stop her, rushing to sit beside them and their mothers. Bucky watches her from the corner of his eye and tries to leave her be, let her be around someone her age for a while.

Another class is letting out, filled with younger girls and boys, and that’s when Bucky notices Natasha dressed in black leotards and leaning in the doorway, more patient than he imagined her to be as they all say goodbye to her, run over to their families.

When they’re gone, she walks over to Bucky and gives him a look, ponytail moving with her as she tilts her head. “You look like you slept well,” she remarks, and she looks oddly light today. “Nerves?”  
  
Bucky’s laugh is a little dry. “Something like that, yeah,” he says, and feels a knot somewhere in his chest loosen. He can see Rebecca going into her classroom, following the other kids just before the door shuts. 

He tries to wave at her, but she doesn’t see him, too wrapped up in her friends and the eagerness to get into class with them.

-

Natasha disappears for a minute, and then comes back to sit down beside him, holding two steaming styrofoam cups of coffee.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” Bucky asks, and takes the cup. “Because I do. More than anyone else in the world, Nat.”  
  
There’s something like a smile on her lips as she sits down beside him. “You know, maybe coffee just has this effect on you,” she says. “Maybe you don’t like Steve at all.”   
  
“God, say it a little louder, why don’t you?” Bucky says irritably.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Steve's not gonna hear you,” she says. “His class lets out in a few minutes, so that gives you at least a little time to mentally prepare yourself.”  
  
Bucky takes a sip of his coffee. It’s a touch too hot, but it doesn’t bother him much. “What did you tell him?” he asks, forces himself to relax, to stop his shoulders from crawling up to his ears. “About me, I mean.”   
  
“Only the good stuff,” Natasha says simply. “But you can find out everything else about him on your own. He’s a nice guy. More open than you think.”   
  
Again, Bucky notices there’s something different in her expression today. No crease between her brows, not as much teasing as he expected.

He squints at her. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood,” he says. “Any reason why?”

That has the lightness running straight off Natasha’s face. “My job is to be nice to kids, Barnes,” she says. “Sometimes my charm lingers after work.”  
  
“You sure it’s nothing else?” Bucky presses. “No one else? Positive?”   
  
It’s Natasha’s turn to look suspicious, and her jaw juts out, a subtle sign of irritation Bucky noticed years ago. He can practically see the cogs in her head turning, and he thinks _oh no_ just before she says, “What the hell are you implying?”

Bucky sighs. Now, he’s not sure he did the right thing at all. By telling Yelena about Natasha’s feelings, by trying to squeeze it out of her now. “Oh, Jesus, now you’re both gonna kill me,” he says, runs his free hand over his eyes. “I mean, that’s not really surprising, but—”  
  
“ _Barnes_.”   
  
“Look, it wasn’t my place to say anything to Yelena, and I’m sorry about that, alright?” Bucky says quickly, tries to keep his voice down. “I thought I was doing something good, but I shouldn’t have done it. That was your call.”

For a moment, Natasha says nothing. Bucky notices her leg bouncing before it quickly stops.

“We kissed last night,” she says, just loud enough for him to hear. “Not long after you left and it...” her expression twists up and she shakes her head. “I don’t know. It was okay. Yelena’s usually pretty blunt, sure of what she wants, and I could tell she wanted to do it, but she seemed nervous.”

“Out of character, definitely, but she was nervous after we talked, too,” Bucky says, and he isn’t sure if it sounds reassuring or not. “Seemed kind of surprised when I told her how you felt.”  
  
That has a slow smile pulling at Natasha’s lips. “Do I wanna know what you told her?”

Bucky smirks. “Only the good stuff,” he echoes. "You two are okay?"  
  
"As fine as we can be," Natasha answers. "Which is pretty good, I think."  
  
"Gee, couldn't have predicted that working out at all," Bucky says.

Natasha bumps her knee against his. Bucky bumps her back. “Well, once you figure your own situation out,” Natasha says. “There’s a dim sum place I wanna try.”  
  
Bucky scoffs. “Why don’t you take your girlfriend instead of me?” he asks.   
  
“Not my girlfriend yet,” Natasha clarifies. “And I meant a double date, slick.”   
  
Before Bucky has a chance to respond, he hears the faint sound of a door opening, voices filtering out, and then Natasha gets a wicked look on her face.   
  
“Well, I bet I know who you’re about to run into,” she says, and moves to stand up. “Have fun. Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.”   
  
“Wait,” Bucky says. “You’re not leaving, are you?”   
  
Natasha hums into her coffee.   
  
“ _Natasha!_ ” Bucky hisses. “You can’t just—”   
  
“Call me later!” Natasha calls, and then just like that, she’s gone, leaving Bucky with only a cooling coffee and Rebecca’s duffle-bag.

-

Bucky watches a few older kids file out of a classroom, but he tries not to pay too much attention. Tries not to keep an eye out for Steve, but it’s impossible not to.

He busies himself with glancing through the small window into Rebecca’s class. When she catches him looking, she waves discreetly. Bucky gives her a thumbs-up and she grins, turns her attention back to her teacher.

“Hey, you’re here,” a familiar voice says.  
  
Bucky’s stomach almost drops to his toes, but he forces himself to turn around, feels more nervous than he’d like when he turns around, heart already beating too quickly.

Steve is standing in front of him, carrying a canvas bag, wearing a long-sleeved, navy shirt that makes his eyes look bluer than usual, his jeans are smeared with paint, he’s wearing glasses again, and Bucky is so, so, _so_ fucked.

 _It’s all you now_ , he thinks, and lets a smile spread over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was that cliffhanger cruel? maybe :D chapter six is already moving though, so expect more to come soon! sorry for being a day late and thanks for reading as always!


	6. Chapter 6

God, it’s weirder than Bucky thought it would be, seeing Steve outside of Carter’s, and he’s already feeling the familiar prickle of discomfort he associates with attempts at getting close to people, trying to segue away from politeness and into whatever Bucky classifies as flirting.

That was the problem with dating for him. It either never went past the talking stage, or did and ended horribly. Maybe that’s why he’s choking up now. Seeing Steve every day and not being obligated to blatantly flirt, to move things further, was comfortable. He knew his limits, and didn’t intend to push past them.

But that’s the same reason Natasha would have never said a word to Yelena. That’s the same reason Bucky hasn’t been on more than five dates in the past two years, not counting the few hook-ups he’d gone for solely because he was lonely and didn’t want to spend another weekend at home.

“Hey,” Bucky says brightly, and tries not to worry if he sounds too enthusiastic. Hell, if there’s a chance of this going in the direction he wants it to, he needs that. Needs to sound as engaged as he wants to be. “Yeah, I’m—” he points to the classroom. “Just waiting for Becca.”

“I figured,” Steve says, glances away for less than a second before he meets Bucky’s eyes again. “How was the movie, by the way?”   
  
Bucky nearly asks what he's talking about, but then it comes back to him. “Right, the movie,” he says. He runs hand through his hair, pushes the stray strands away from his face. “We did a double feature. Well, we planned on one. We watched Matilda, and then Becks knocked out, so I watched Back to the Future alone.”

“Sounds like she missed out,” Steve says, then sighs. “Look, I gotta tell you, Natasha told me you were gonna be here.”

The laugh that punches out of Bucky’s chest is a little awkward. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he stuffs them into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says. “Uh, yeah, about that. She told me, too. Yesterday. I—” his neck feels hot, and he hopes the flush isn’t visible, hopes Steve can’t see it. “I might have mentioned you a couple days back. To Nat, I mean.”

Steve tilts his head, looks more than a little curious, but he doesn’t seem to be put off.

Regardless, Bucky's blush is creeping further up, feverish against his cheeks. He opens his mouth to explain, to elaborate, but Steve beats him to it.

“Looks like we’re in the same boat, then,” Steve says. “You wanna sit down?”

His smile is small and sincere, crinkling at the corners of his eyes, so ridiculously real and completely different from the one Bucky usually associates with him. 

A part of Bucky considers pinching himself, because this can’t be happening. He can’t actually have a chance at this, he can’t actually have an opportunity to talk to Steve for more than five minutes, but he  _ does _ , and he has until Rebecca’s class ends.

“Sure, I was over here, anyway,” Bucky says, and Steve walks with him back to his abandoned bench.

-

“So, do I wanna ask why I came up in your conversation with Nat?” Steve asks, point blank, and Bucky nearly chokes on his own spit.

Luckily, he doesn’t. He manages to say, “Do I?” and it makes Steve laugh. It’s quiet, rumbles faintly in his lungs. Bucky tries not to pay too much attention to the way Steve’s nose scrunches up with it, tries not to pay attention to his own pulse, still too fast, fluttering hard against his ribcage.

“You got me there,” Steve says.

“I can tell you the backstory,” Bucky starts. “But it’s...I’m warning you, it might sound weird.”   
  
Steve pins him with a look. “Buck, I gotta be honest here, I think it’s weirder on my side,” he says. “I barely know you, and I—” he shrugs. “Now we’re here.”   
  
Somehow, Bucky is relieved that Steve is nervous, too.

He’s relieved, because he doesn’t feel insane for assuming now. He doesn’t feel like he was projecting this entire time, because here Steve is, sitting beside him, and struggling over his own words.

A knot loosens in Bucky’s shoulders, and he's a fraction less worried about stumbling over his words, over making a fool of himself. “Barely know me, huh?” he says, nudges Steve lightly. “Well, it looks like you got a chance to change that, Steve.”

The spark in Steve’s gaze is warm, a stark contrast to the dull waiting area, and Bucky is all too aware of how close they’re sitting, all too aware of the fact that if he plays his cards right, he might actually manage to make this work.

-

Squeezed on a bench, with a cacophony of noise all around, they manage to break the ice.

Bucky only tells him the basics about himself, tells him how he moved to Bed-Stuy two years ago, tells him what he does and how he works from home but wants to be more active, wants to make travelling a bigger part of his life, find a way to bring it into his career one way or another.

“I wanted studied abroad, but things never lined up the way they were supposed to,” Bucky says. “I was planning on spending a semester in Prague, so I definitely wanna go there one day. The, uh—” it’s been years, but he still can’t find a way to talk about his writing without immediately wanting to divert away from the topic for good, whether or not whoever he's talking to is interested. “The book I’m working on. I really gotta travel for it. For research, and to get a feel for where most of it’s set.”   
  
That catches Steve’s attention. “So, that’s what you do all day,” he says, like he’s been  _ wondering _ . Bucky isn’t sure what to think about that. “I kinda figured you were a writer, but I didn’t wanna ask.”   
  
Bucky’s brows knit together. “What gave me away?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but he seems to change his mind. “At this point, it seems like every person in their twenties is an artist or a writer,” he answers. “And you don’t seem like an artist.”   
  
“Not a bad observation,” Bucky says, nodding. “Guess you don’t need me tellin’ you I can barely draw a stick figure, then.”

“You can always learn,” Steve says, shrugs.

“ _ Pfft,  _ yeah,” Bucky says. “And be a professional by the time I’m forty.”   
  
“That’s only, what, fifteen, sixteen years?” Steve teases. “Piece of cake.”

“God, fifteen years doesn’t sound that far away,” Bucky groans. “How long have you been working down here?”   
  
“Just under a year,” Steve says. “I did commissions while I was in school, saved up since Brooklyn isn’t as cheap as it was when I was a kid. So, I got those, I got Carter’s, and I got this now, too.”   
  
“Sounds like a lot on you,” Bucky says. “I gotta be honest.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not so bad,” he says. “It keeps me busy, at least.”   
  
The door to Rebecca’s classroom opens and the kids all come filing out, talking to each other loudly and saying goodbye to their teacher, who lingers at the door as they do. When Rebecca spots Bucky, she flags him down. “Come here!” she shouts, so Bucky stands up, turns to Steve. He rubs the nape of his own neck, suddenly sheepish.

“Hey, can you just give me one second?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” Steve says, waves it off. “Take your time.”

He means it. It’s not just brushing Bucky off. For whatever reason, Bucky can tell he’s not the type to just slip out on anyone. For whatever reason, Bucky is getting very comfortable with the idea that Steve might be a genuine person.   
  
Still, Bucky is alight with nerves.

He walks over to Rebecca, who grabs his hand and tugs him over to what he assumes are her friends. “Hey, Buck, did you see me dance?” Rebecca puffs out, and before Bucky can respond, she adds “Oh, these are my friends, Brinley and Lily, and I wanted to ask—okay,  _ they _ want me to ask, but I dunno if you’re gonna say yes and—”   
  
“Woah, woah, slow down, squirt, slow down,” Bucky says. “What is it?”   
  
“Ask him already, Becca!” one of her friends whine.

“Can I go back to Brinley’s house?” Rebecca asks frantically, almost pleading. “You can ask Ma and Pop, I go there all the time after class, and they even let me sleep over once in a while.”

“Where does Brinley live?” Bucky asks, arches a brow.

“Greenpoint,” Rebecca says simply.

Bucky blinks. Jesus  _ Christ,  _ if that's the case,  then what the hell is a rich family doing with a ballet school all the way in Coney Island? “Greenpoint,” he echoes.   
  
Bucky huffs, rubs the nape of his neck. “Look, just give me a second to text them, and I’ll see,” he says, already grabbing his phone, opening his previous texts to his ma. “I’m not completely in charge here, you know.”   
  
He types out the question sends it over, hopes it goes through. “You were great, by the way,” he says, tugs her in to hug her from the side, runs his hand up and down her arm when she leans into him. “Real great, Becks.”   
  
Thankfully, Bucky’s phone buzzes with a response, and he reads it. “Alright, listen up” he says, glances at Rebecca. “Ma says no sleepovers, but you can hang out with your friends till eight-thirty.”

Rebecca grins, and when she squeezes Bucky around the waist, it’s tighter than he expects. He grunts, pats her on the back. “You know my number, right?” he asks. “You’ll call me if you wanna come back home?”

“Uh-huh,” Rebecca says, nodding. “I promise.”   
  
Truth is, Bucky is a little thrown off at the thought of just sending her off all the way to Greenpoint, even if she’s been there before. But the go-ahead from his folks, the way Brinley’s mother is talking to Rebecca like she knows her, it all points to everything going fine.

Swallowing down his worry, he gives his number to Brinley’s parents, who tell him they’ll call or text him once they get home. They tell him they don’t mind dropping Rebecca to him later on, and Bucky finds himself saying yes to that offer. After that, it isn’t long before they’re leaving. Bucky gives Rebecca her duffle, her hoodie, and then she’s leaving, turning around and walking backward to wave at Bucky while he waves back, gestures for her to call him one more time.

And then he’s alone, save for Steve, who pockets his phone when he sees Bucky walking over.

“Sorry that took a while. Becca’s going to her friend’s house for the day,” Bucky says, and despite the faint pinch of worry, he realizes he might have time for  _ this _ . Might have time for Steve. “So, if you wanna go hang out somewhere that’s not here...”

“You’re gonna head back home, right?” Steve asks.

Bucky is half-expecting Steve to find a way to end the conversation here, to find a way to slip out and away. “I mean, yeah,” Bucky says. “But I’m in no rush.”   
  
“I gotta head back into Carter’s later, anyway, redesign the sidewalk sign,” Steve says as he stands up, tugs his bag higher onto his shoulder. Bucky’s stomach flips over, just slightly. “We can hang out for a while, and since you’re a writer, you have to help me come up with the rest of the sign.”   
  
Bucky laughs, maybe too loud, and it echoes ever so slightly. “I’ll do my best,” he says. “I ain’t really known for my sense of humor, though.”   
  
“Eh, you’ll figure it out,” Steve says. “I have faith in you.”   
  
“Let’s hope your faith is stronger than your tolerance for shitty jokes,” Bucky says, and when Steve makes for the door, he follows him out into the overcast day.

-

They don’t wait long for the train, and when they get on, when they find seats, Bucky is a little surprised to find Steve pulling out a small, leather bound sketchbook from his bag, flipping to a blank page, bookmarked with a pencil.

“Oh, so, you’re a people-watcher, huh?” Bucky asks quietly, glances down at the page as Steve begins to draw the likeness of the old man a few seats ahead of them. “Guess every artist is.”   
  
“It passes the time,” Steve says, his leg bumping against Bucky’s as the train leaves the station. “It’s better than listening to music and forgetting to keep an ear out for my stop. Hearing ain’t so good anyway.”

Bucky is tempted to ask more about it, but he's not sure if that's his place yet. It might not be. Not yet. 

For now, he’ll take what Steve is giving him, and he’ll try to do the same in return.

“Hey,” Bucky mutters as Steve finishes his sketch. “Do that guy next, with the cowboy hat.”

Steve looks up and snorts. “Who the hell wears a cowboy hat in New York?” he asks.   
  
Bucky’s smile is less tense as it stretches over his face. “I dunno, pal, you tell me,” he says, and watches another drawing come to life.

If they end up sitting too close, if Bucky’s side is warm with being pressed against Steve’s, or if he leans over more than he should, neither of them say much about it. Steve’s sketchbook fills. The train rumbles beneath Bucky’s feet.

It’s the best he’s felt in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLYYYYY THEY'RE HANGING OUTTTTTTTTTTT YEEHAWWWWWWWWWWW im way too excited about this despite being the one to write the fic lmao
> 
> i hope you guys liked this one, we probably only have less than five chapters left, but im not gonna set it at any particular number just yet. as always, thank you for reading! much love xx


	7. Chapter 7

As always, Natasha is right.

Steve is more open than Bucky imagined him to be, and it doesn’t take much to get him talking, for Bucky to learn that he lives in Brownsville, that he grew up there, that he’s been interested in art for as long as he can remember, and that, apparently, his mother encouraged him to pursue it since it kept him out of trouble.

They’re sat in the back of the pizzeria Bucky’s been ordering from since he moved to Bed-Stuy, two greasy slices of pepperoni between them and two icy styrofoam cups of soda between them, as Steve tells him all of this, and it’s...nice. It’s nice, just being around someone new. Someone Bucky actually wants to get to know. 

Here and now, he doesn’t worry about how that sounds because he feels a little more like he knows Steve. He doesn’t feel like he’s prying, not when their feet are bumping together under the rickety table, not when they’ve been talking nonstop since they’ve bumped into each other.

“Oh, so, you’re that guy,” Bucky says, takes a slow sip from his root beer. “Can’t walk away from a fight.”  
  
Steve arches a brow. “Is that a bad thing?” he asks.

“Not really, but it means now I know you won’t back down when some asshole takes a swing at you,” Bucky says. “Which I’m gonna assume happens a lot.”

Steve chuckles. “Well, I can’t come into work with a black eye, so when it does happen, just know I’m good at not getting my face punched in anymore,” he says. “Me a few years ago? Not so much. I just got so busy at one point, between work and school, I guess I didn’t have a whole lot of time to have it out with anyone.”

“Where’d you go to school?” Bucky asks.

“NYU,” Steve answers, pops the last of his crust into his mouth. “I didn’t live on campus, though. Just took a train into the city every day.”  
  
“Did the same thing myself till I dropped out,” Bucky says, and before Steve gets a chance to make any assumptions, he adds, “Look, there was a lot goin’ on. I chose to study something I didn’t care about, the recession hit, my folks weren’t doing so great, and we weren’t doing that great as it was back then, and—I had no time. There was no way for me to go to school while everything went to shit and then with Becca coming into—”  
  
“Woah,” Steve says, holds a hand up, but it’s not to interrupt. It’s not to get Bucky to stop talking. Not really. There’s something like reassurance in Steve’s voice. “Woah, Buck, I’m not gonna judge you for dropping out, even if none of what you said happened. It sounds like you got a lot accomplished anyway. Sounds like you’re more on track to figuring out what you want to do.”  
  
Bucky isn’t sure why, but Steve calling him _Buck_ stops his thoughts in their tracks.

It’s not as if no one else calls him that, but it’s the fact that Steve’s using it, too. Using a nickname of a nickname Bucky only associates with anyone close to him.

And the funny thing is, Steve isn’t wrong.

The year and a half Bucky spent in college left him stressed to the point that he couldn’t think straight, unable to grasp the fact that he’d chosen the wrong path and felt stifled by it. That on top of the guilt, the burn of shame when he told his parents he was tempted to drop out, left him a husk of himself for far too long, and he worked in a haze, forced himself into a routine until he was too busy to think about anything but the present.

Maybe it wasn’t the perfect strategy, but Bucky can say he’s happier now than he would have been if he’d pursued his degree. Happier that he has the time to work toward his goals, to focus on what he has around him.

So, he lets his shoulders droop a little, allows himself to realize that maybe there won’t be so much judgement from Steve after all.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. He shakes his head. “Sorry, just been a long few years. Feels like I’ve been living in fast-forward since then and things are just starting to slow down.”  
  
“From what you’re telling me, it doesn’t sound like you did it alone, and if anyone knows how important that is, it’s me,” Steve says. “My ma passed right before freshman year, and I wanted to shut down, just...go on autopilot for a while, since it was always just the two of us, but I had—I _have_ some good people in my life. I doubt I would have got through it without them.”  
  
Bucky's stomach does a flip. “Shit,” he says with feeling. “Shit, Steve, I’m sorry.”  
  
Steve shakes his head. The glare of the neon outside casts red and green over one side of his face, reflects faintly in his eyes. “You didn’t know,” he says. “But it’s like I was saying, at least you didn’t do it alone. You had your parents and your friends. Becca, too.”  
  
Bucky smiles faintly. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s a good kid. Most of the time.”

“Well, you two seem really close,” Steve says.

“Yeah, we’re close alright,” Bucky says, takes a bite of his pizza. “My folks were expecting her when I was about to start at NYU and by the time I dropped out, it was the three of us raising her. She’s kinda like my kid, too, you know what I mean? I think it's why I let her get away with so much.”

“Kinda like your...?” Steve starts, and then he puts his face in his hands. “Oh my God. Oh my _God_ , I’m such an idiot.“

“You’re telling me I never said so?” Bucky asks, and then he’s laughing, really laughing just as Steve’s shoulders start to shake. Bucky reaches across the table, shoves his shoulder. “Steve, I’m just watching her for the week!”  
  
Steve lifts his hands away from his face, and he’s gone red, grinning. “Jesus, Bucky,” he groans. “This whole time I was _convinced_ —”

“Oh, so that’s what it was that made you like me, huh?” Bucky teases. He leans back in his seat, unable to wipe the smile off his face despite doing his damnedest to appear serious. “You see this lonely, greasy guy with only his kid for company and think ‘yep, definitely telling someone about this keeper’?”

If possible, Steve’s gone more red, and then he kicks Bucky in the shin, leaves him hissing out a curse, leaning forward again arms crossed over the table. “Oh, come on,” Bucky says. “I know no one can resist a guy with a little kid. Ladies hit on me all the time when I’m watchin’ Becca.”  
  
“Shut up,” Steve says, catching his breath. He exhales, slow and deep. “You’re a jerk.”  
  
“Heard that before,” Bucky says, tugs his phone out of his pocket when it buzzes and unlocks it. “Fucking finally. A goddamn hour without a text letting me know the kid’s alive and this woman has the nerve to say _oopsie._ Yeah, I’ll show you a fuckin’ oopsie.”  
  
“And you wonder why I thought Becca was your kid,” Steve says, and then leans over as Bucky start rapidly typing. “What the hell are you sending her?”  
  
“Don’t worry, I know how to speak soccer mom, know how to be real passive aggressive when I wanna be,” Bucky says without looking up from his line of text with too many happy faces and exclamation points.

“Buck, if I’m tellin’ you not to send fighting words, it’s not a good idea,” Steve says. He makes a grab for the phone. “ _Bucky_."

“I’m not sending fighting words,” Bucky says, a laugh lacing his words as he bats Steve away. “I’m just—get _outta_ here—I’m just sending back the same bullshit she sent me.”

“Really?” Steve asks.  
  
“Hand to God.”  
  
“I don’t see your hand up.”

Bucky raises his hand. “Happy?” he says. “Here, read the damn text if it makes you feel any better.”  
  
Steve’s fingers brush against Bucky’s as he grabs the phone, and they’re surprisingly warm, rougher than Bucky expected. He isn’t sure if they linger for a second too long, or if he’s imagining it.

Eyes on Bucky’s phone, Steve reads over the text. “Okay,” he says, smiling lopsidedly before he hands the phone back. “Fine. Passive-aggressive, but I don’t think she’ll notice. Go for it.”

“Gee, thanks, boss,” Bucky says wryly, and sends the text, pocketing his phone. “What would I do without you?”

“I think I’m gonna need to make a list,” Steve teases, and then he’s slipping off his chair. “You know I’m holding you to helping me with that sign, right?”

“I was counting on that,” Bucky says, and follows him out the door.

-

“I’d invite you in,” Bucky says as they pass his apartment, walk the familiar route to Carter’s. “But it’s sort of a disaster. I mean, it’s usually pretty clean, but Christ, there’s so much junk everywhere right now it’s just—” he mimes choking himself. “It’s suffocating up there.”

“Hey, to be fair, my apartment isn’t exactly a palace,” Steve says. “I live with a couple of friends, and we all try to get on a schedule of keeping it clean, but it’s not really working out. Sharon’s a nurse, so she’s only at Carter’s a couple days a week and works pretty long shifts, meaning she knocks out whenever she gets a chance. Sam works at the VA, and it’s mainly just me and him at home most days, so once we get to doing nothing—”  
  
“That’s about all you do,” Bucky cuts in.

“Just about,” Steve says, keys jingling when he pulls them out. “We’re both procrastinators, but I think I’m making him worse.”

They round the corner, and Steve unlocks the door to Carter’s, long since closed. He keeps the blinds drawn, and turns a few lights on as Bucky slips inside behind him, takes a look around.

It’s funny, seeing the shop this empty, and Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself now, leaning awkwardly near the milk and sugar station while Steve rummages behind the counter, looking through drawers.

“Can you come and grab the sign?” Steve calls without looking up. “My hands are pretty full.”

When Bucky comes behind the counter, he sees Steve with two rags, a big bottle of cleaning solution, and a box of chalk markers. “Any ideas yet?” Bucky asks, finds the sidewalk sign leaning against the counter and lifts it up. “Where do you want this?”  
  
“Just lay it on one of the tables,” Steve says, falling into step with him. “I don’t know yet, though, I was trying to think about it this morning and I just kept drawing a blank.”

Bucky lays the sign down on the table and sits down, watches Steve spray it with cleaner and wipe it until there’s no trace of any design left. Only a smooth, black canvas. “You could do one with like, a pop culture reference,” Bucky suggests, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “You can do Yoda holding a coffee or something.”  
  
Steve snickers, sets the rag down. “Okay, that’s something to consider," he says, meets Bucky’s gaze. “I was thinking doing a cartoony, comic book kind of thing, anyway. Maybe pop art?”  
  
“Like the crying girl?” Bucky asks as Steve plops down on the chair beside him.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Steve says. “But thanks to you, I can’t stop thinking about Yoda now.”  
  
“Do it,” Bucky says enthusiastically, shoves the box of markers toward him. “I’ll pay you. I’ll actually _pay_ _you_ , just—”  
  
“Fine, you win,” Steve says, then points at him. “But you’re coming up with the text bubble. We got a deal?”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
-

It doesn’t take as long as Bucky expects, but they’re still in Carter’s for over an hour as the sign comes together, as Bucky watches all the little details Steve adds. There’s smudges of color on his fingertips, but it looks hours, maybe days, old. It’s hard to look away from them.  
  
It’s hard to look away from a lot of things. Like the concentration that knits Steve’s brows together, the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth when he wipes a mistake away, his slender hand pushing his bangs out of his eyes. Bucky is half-tempted to do it for him, but they haven’t talked about anything vaguely romantic, haven’t discussed the hastily planned meeting thanks to Natasha. They’ve been acting like they met by coincidence for almost the whole day, skating close to something like acknowledging it but pulling away at the last moment.

“You know,” Steve says, drawing a massive swirl of whipped cream on a cup. “ I have to clean the machine soon anyway, so you got a chance for a drink on the house.”

Bucky smiles. “I’ll have one if you do,” he says.

“Do you have good enough handwriting to finish the sign?” Steve asks, leans forward. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you here.”  
  
It sends a prickle up Bucky’s spine. “Uh,” he begins, glances at the markers on the table. “I’m pretty good, I guess. I can do cursive, too, if that helps."  
  
“Star Wars was your idea,” Steve reminds him. “So try to make it funny, huh?”  
  
He pushes away from the table to head behind the counter, and he has a funny look on his face that Bucky can’t quite read, but he forces himself to tear his eyes away, looks down at the sign, and picks up a white marker, trying his best not to listen to Steve moving around behind him.

-

“Okay, that’s…” Steve says, grinning as he slides a plain mug of coffee toward Bucky. “That’s great. That’s really funny.”  
  
Bucky takes the mug and looks up at him. “Are you just saying that or is it actually funny?”

“No, I mean it,” Steve says. “It’s great, Buck.”

“Looks like your blind faith wasn’t so blind after all, then,” Bucky says, takes a long moment to look at Steve before he forces himself to speak again. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
Steve’s expression softens ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he says, sits back down. “Yeah, go ahead.”  
  
“You said this was weirder on your side,” Bucky says, feels another wave of heat creep up his neck. “Why?”  
  
It’s been at the tip of his tongue for hours, but God, things have been going so well today, he couldn’t bear to ask. Couldn’t bear to say anything at all.

Steve sighs. “It _was_ weird because I didn’t know you outside of work. You were a customer, and I figured you were more worried about me getting your order right than anything else,” he says, and there’s tension in his voice, lining his body. When Bucky looks down, he’s clasping his hands. Bucky notices his own hands positioned the same way, wrung tight. “I didn’t really have a whole lot to go off of, I gotta be honest.”  
  
“Yeah, well, how do you think I felt?” Bucky asks, leans a little closer. “I figured I’m a regular and I'm basically paying you to be nice to me, and hell, Steve, I didn’t even know your name till a few days ago. I used to call you—God, it’s embarrassing, but I used to call you Blondie. In my head, I mean.”  
  
“Why didn’t you just ask?” Steve asks, and there’s a smile curling at his lips, slow and crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I wouldn’t have cared.”  
  
“I can’t flirt to save my life, alright?” Bucky says, face scorched. “I’m the worst at it, I swear. That’s why I had no way to know if you liked me, ‘cause I wasn’t gonna wonder and overthink it if that wasn’t the case. I couldn't really base it on you liking my shirt.”  
  
“Buck,” Steve says, ridiculously soft in a way that tugs at the core of Bucky’s chest.

“I mean it,” Bucky insists. “So, it’s a relief you knew Natasha, because otherwise…”  
  
“Otherwise we would have been stuck in the same loop until one of us kicked ourselves in the ass and spoke up,” Steve says, and he’s closer than Bucky initially thought. 

He smells of coffee and rain and something Bucky can’t place, something faintly chemical. Some sort of paint thinner. Bucky can recall a similar scent from the one summer he spent as a teenager painting his neighbor’s walls, crouching down to get the moldings as precise as possible.  
  
Before Bucky knows it, his hand is at the back of Steve’s neck, thumb resting against the fine hairs at the base of his skull. He swallows around his dry throat. “Then thank God for nosy friends,” Bucky breathes out, and moves to lean forward, but Steve beats him to it.

And then Bucky’s phone buzzes, leaves him freezing before he even has a chance to meet Steve in the middle. He groans, loud and long, as he grabs the thing. “Just—fuck, I hate my life. I swear I hate my life.”  
  
“Shut up and answer the phone, you baby,” Steve says, shoves him, and he’s obviously trying not to laugh, gone red all over again.  
  
Bucky huffs, maybe too petulantly, and does just that. “It’s just a text,” he says, relieved. “Becca’s gonna be dropped off at my place in forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes?” Steve echoes, still unbearably close. Bucky still hasn’t taken his hand off his neck. “You sure about that?”  
  
“According to _the driver,_ ” Bucky says and takes on an affected, nasally voice for the last part before sends back a simple _ok, thanks_ , and hides his phone away.  
  
“I like the subtle brag,” Steve says.  
  
“Yeah, she’s really digging the knife in, huh?” Bucky says. “Fucking rich people.”

“Well, maybe they’ll get stuck in traffic,” Steve muses, and then kisses Bucky, firm and sure.

His hands, slender and long, come to either side of Bucky’s face, and Bucky almost freezes before he gets with the program and kisses back, melts into it as he tugs Steve closer with his free hand, heart pounding hard against his ribcage.

Steve pulls back, just for a second, just enough time for Bucky to breathe out, “Holy shit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Steve murmurs against his mouth, and maybe Bucky’s smile is a little too dopey, maybe he's too satisfied with himself, but he doesn’t care.

God, he doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAYYYYYY THEY KISSED i could not take a cliffhanger so here we are!! 
> 
> i think we only have a chapter or two left to go, so thank you guys so so much for sticking around for this!!! i really hope you liked this one, let me know your thoughts bc your comments FUEL ME


	8. Chapter 8

They don’t go any further than where they are, because there isn’t as much time as they’d like, and the blinds on the windows don’t hide as much as they appear to, according to Steve.

But they find a way to make it work.

Hidden behind the counter, sat on the floor, Bucky lets his thoughts fade to the back of his mind for a while, half aware of the time slipping by, even though he has exactly what he’s been wanting right in front of him, even though he’s kissing Steve, letting him straddle his waist, after months of trying not to think about exactly that.

“I really gotta go,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s mouth, fingers caught on the collar of his shirt, thumb tracing over the hem. “Like, really gotta go.”  
  
“I know,” Steve says, and it’s slower this time when he kisses Bucky, warm and slow, leaving Bucky chasing his mouth for more when he breaks away. “But before you do—” Steve reaches into his back pocket, grabs his wallet. “I know it seems kinda stiff, but it’s the only thing I have, and I don’t have a pen on me.”

He hands the slip of paper over, and Bucky finds it’s a business card, crisp and thick, emblazoned with a star in a circle of red, white and blue. 

**_Steve Rogers_ **

_graphic design - illustration - portraiture_

His phone number is printed below.

Bucky pockets the card and looks up at him. “I’ll text you when I get home?” he suggests, slides his hand up Steve’s shoulder, thumb lingering over the sharp jut of his collarbone. “Make sure you didn’t give me a fake number.”  
  
Steve laughs, quiet and breathy. “‘Cause I put all that effort into a fake business card just to get you off my back,” he murmurs. “You got me, Buck. You’re a real sleuth.”   
  
“Well, I spend half my time writing about people with ulterior motives,“ Bucky says. “Gotta find a way to use some of my research in real life, too.”

“Save it for your book,” Steve says, tugs him closer, brings his hands up to either side of Bucky’s face. “Maybe I’ll consider reading it if you ever finish it.”

“You can buy it like everyone else, asshole,” Bucky teases, kisses Steve again. “You’re the last person I’d give a free copy to.”

He tries and fails to suppress the sound he makes, the shiver that runs up his spine when Steve’s hand slides into his hair, fingers threading in and tugging lightly. It sends another, almost dizzying wave of heat through Bucky’s body. “Alright, now I really have to go,” Bucky manages to say without stumbling over his words. ”You’re killin’ me here, I swear.”  
  
“I know,” Steve says. When he stands, he holds a hand out, helps Bucky to his feet. “Go ahead.”

“Yeah, I’m going, I’m going,” Bucky says, raises his hands as he moves away. He checks his watch. Five minutes to spare, and still no text telling him Rebecca’s outside. If he starts walking back now, he might be able to play it off like he’s been waiting outside.

Then again, he could always run back.

Bucky flattens his mouth into a tight line, stands facing the door with his hands on his hips before he turns around and walks back toward Steve in a few strides. “Just gimme a second,” he says.

“Way ahead of you,” Steve says quickly, leaning over the counter to grab Bucky by his t-shirt.

The kiss is a little messier, a little less coordinated than before, but hell, Bucky doesn’t care. He doubts Steve does either, considering the fact that he’s just as eager, just as reluctant to let Bucky go as Bucky is to leave, and isn’t that something?

It’s hard to hold back a smile. “Good to know we’re on the same page,” Bucky says and wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist, squeezes once before he lets go.

“Funny how things work out,” Steve says, shoves him away lightly. “Now get outta here.”

“Yessir,” Bucky says. “I’ll—”  
  
Steve reaches a hand forward. “Watch out for the—!”   
  
Bucky stumbles against a chair, catches himself on the back of it, and they’re both laughing then, Bucky a little breathless with it, still flushed but then he’s walking out, breathing in air cooled down by the rains. He steels himself with it, shaking off the lingering heat on his skin, and feeling surprised that there’s a little more space in his lungs to breathe.

  
-

He gets a text alerting him to Rebecca being dropped off just as he crosses the street to his building, and he waves Brinley’s mother off as he collects her, puts an arm around her in a side-hug before they go back upstairs.  
  
“How was Greenpoint?” Bucky asks, shutting and locking the door behind them. “Do anything fun?”

Rebecca’s long since changed out of her leotard, but her bun has somehow stood in place. Maybe Bucky is better at this than he thought.

He lets her talk his ear off, lets her tell him about her friends and how they spent the day, manages to listen and talk to her despite his mind still racing a mile a minute, despite his lips still buzzing with the phantom pressure of Steve’s, still feeling the faint pressure of his fingers in his hair.

“So, what’d you do today?” Rebecca asks, sat upside down on the couch.

Bucky shakes his head, shrugs. “Not much,” he says simply. “Not much of anything.”

-

It turns out Rebecca never ate dinner at Brinley’s house, which leaves Bucky spitting mad.

“So, what did you do, then? Swallow your spit?” Bucky asks, putting a pot of water to boil, adding a few shakes of salt to it. “They didn’t offer you anything?”  
  
“I didn’t _want_ anything, anyway,” Rebecca groans, leans back against the fridge. “Brinley’s dad made this stupid gluten-free dinner, and they were eating fish, even though Ma told them I’m allergic before, _and_ all the other stuff was cooked with it.”   
  
_Christ._

“Pardon my French, Becks, but Brinley’s parents are a couple of assholes,” Bucky snaps, not necessarily at Rebecca but at the stupidity of the situation. “They can bend over backwards for their food, but not—” he puffs out a steadying breath, promptly reminds himself not to have any kids, and rests his back against the counter, facing Rebecca. “Look, it ain’t you I’m mad at, squirt, I’m just frustrated.”  
  
Rebecca hums, seemingly unbothered.

“You’re not gonna repeat what I said about them being assholes, are you?” Bucky asks.

“Nah,” Rebecca answers. “Brinley’s my friend, but I don’t like going there that much. They don’t even let her watch TV.”  
  
Bucky drums his fingers on the countertop, shuts his eyes for a moment. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Next time you end up somewhere like that, _call me_ _._ Send an S.O.S. signal, something, because that—that just sounds like a bad time.”

-

It’s only spaghetti with a jar of marinara sauce spilled into it, but Rebecca plows through an entire bowl without any complaints and goes back for seconds. Out of spite, Bucky lets her sit in front of the TV while she eats and makes a mental note not to mention that to his parents.

Sat on the other side of the sofa, legs tucked beneath him, Bucky punches Steve’s number into his phone, types out a text, feeling more nervous than he’d like to admit.

_you still at carters?_

_its bucky by the way :)_

The smiley face is out of character for him, since he usually texts to get his point across and nothing more, and he tries not to think anything of it as he sets his phone on the coffee table, tries not to look at it, tries not to pay it any mind at all.

Even with what happened tonight, Bucky isn’t going to wait at the edge of his seat for a text back. He’s done it before and regretted it, and while Steve is miles more likable than anyone Bucky’s ever gone out with, there’s still the lingering worry of being too forward too quickly, of scaring him off.

It’s only about five minutes before his phone buzzes and he grabs it, slides it open to read the text.

 ** _Look_** **_out your window._**

Bucky arches a brow and gets up. It’s hard, scratch that, _impossible_ , to ignore the bubble of affection in his chest, but it’s there, and it refuses to leave.

“Give me a second, pal,” Bucky says, and makes his way for the window, unlatching it and opening it up.

Steve is standing on the sidewalk below, and a grin splits Bucky’s face when they lock eyes. “You know,” Bucky says over the noise of the street. “You’re really tempting me to come down there.”  
  
“So, why don’t you?” Steve asks.

“I don’t think I can leave Re—”  
  
“Who are you talking to?” Rebecca squeezes her way under a gap between Bucky’s arm and his side to look down at Steve before she turns to Bucky, her gaze utterly scrutinizing.   
  
Even though Steve and Rebecca had already met, Bucky hadn’t exactly kissed Steve then. Sure, they’re still basically strangers, but that fact is becoming harder to ignore by the second.

“Uh, you remember Steve, right?” Bucky manages to say, still looking down at him.

“Frozen hot chocolate guy?” Rebecca answers, then waves out the window. “Hi!”

Steve waves back. “I just pass here on my way to the station,” he says to Bucky, points down the street. “Figured I’d say goodnight.”

It’s too early to feel in so deep, especially since Bucky’s only technically known Steve for a few days, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to deprive himself of this. Doesn’t want to shove down the possibility of being happy to be around someone, especially someone who feels the same way in return.

“Night,” Bucky says, fights against the urge to meet him downstairs, limbs buzzing with it. “I’ll see you around.”

“Goodnight!” Rebecca shouts, ear-piercingly loud and carrying down the street, leaving a few passersby staring up. Bucky cringes. Steve laughs.

“Night, you two,” he says, and then he’s walking away, absorbed by the noise and the small crowd on the street, surprisingly busy for a weekday.

Bucky watches him go, just for a moment, and then he shuts the window, stops the hot breeze in its tracks, and walks away, tries to brace himself for the slew of questions as Rebecca follows him back to the couch. 

“Was he at the studio today, too?” she asks. “Was that who you were talking to?”

“I was talking to him because he works there,” Bucky answers and sits down heavily, leaning his head back against the wall. “He’s an art teacher.”

Rebecca settles back into her original spot, tucks back into her bowl and swirls a bite of spaghetti onto her fork. “Is he your boyfriend or something?” she asks.

“Is he—?” Bucky sputters. “No! Jesus, Becks, he’s not my boyfriend.”  
  
“Then why are you getting so touchy about it, huh?” Rebecca presses.

Bucky throws his arms up. “Because I’m not gonna sit here talkin’ about boyfriends with my kid sister?” he says incredulously. “That a good enough reason?”

“Sure,” Rebecca says through a mouthful, points at Bucky with her fork. “But you’re getting all red.”

Bucky feels the scorch on his face even stronger than before. “No, I’m not,” he argues.

“Are too.”

“Am—“ Bucky grits his teeth, resists the petulant urge to argue back. “You know what? Why don’t you go finish your stay at Natasha’s? You can sleep in Liho’s litter box.”

“Ha-ha _\- ha,”_ Rebecca says sharply. “You’re so funny.”

“You get your sense of humor from me, pipsqueak,” Bucky says. “Means two can play at this game.”

“It’s not a game if you suck at it,” Rebecca says. “And stop calling me pipsqueak already.”

“I’ll be calling you a pipsqueak when you’re thirty, pipsqueak,” Bucky says.

Rebecca sticks her tongue out at him. Bucky does it back, and then Rebecca flips him off.

“Where the _hell_ did you learn that?” Bucky shouts.

-

The next day is uneventful. Bucky spends the morning writing, spends the afternoon responding to requests for translations, for editing a new manuscript, and manages to get it all planned for the next few days. He lets Rebecca use his laptop to video chat with Ma and Pop, and spends the time he’s not saying hi to look at his small thread of texts with Steve, leg bouncing as he gauges whether or not to send something, whether or not to engage.

It’s later on that he does, long after Rebecca’s gone to sleep, that he finally musters up the courage to break the silence.

_how was the sidewalk sign received?_

Steve answers back almost immediately. _**Turns out everyone liked Yoda and all your puns, so I think we’re gonna stick with it for a while!** _

_proof my ideas are unmatched_

_if i ever give you another suggestion follow thru with it_

**_Duly noted ;)_ **

**_Mind if I call you? I’m not much of a texter._ **

_me neither knock urself out_

Bucky barely gives the phone a moment to ring before he answers it. “Hey,” he says. “Yeah, I’m—I hate texting, too, so thanks for that one.”  
  
“I feel like it’s only my co-workers who text me, and I gotta be honest, I just don’t feel like typing,” Steve says, laughs.

“Fair enough,” Bucky chuckles quietly. “Plus, every guy I’ve ever talked to over text just seems to send a dick pic before the conversation even gets started.”  
  
Steve laughs again. “Wow, okay, yeah. That’s...that’s definitely a good reason,” he says. “Is it too late for you to talk?”   
  
“What? No, Becca’s just sleeping, and my place is one room, so I don’t wanna wake her up, I only have a curtain separating the bed from the living room,” Bucky answers, lies back a little further, tries to get comfortable. “And just so you know, my folks’ll be back Sunday afternoon to pick her up, so I’m yours pretty much anytime after that.”

“I’m free Sunday,” Steve says, and Bucky does his best to ignore the swell of excitement in his chest. “And Monday night. Whatever works.”  
  
“Well, it’s either more pizza or letting me cook you some actual food,” Bucky says. “Your choice.”   
  
“At least one of us knows how to cook,” Steve says. “I don’t think you’ll ever talk to me again if I try to cook for you.”   
  
“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Bucky says.

“No, I am that bad,” Steve argues and a guy shouts _he can’t even make eggs!_ “See? Sam just proved my point.”   
  
“If you can’t even make eggs, I trust Sam’s opinion,” Bucky teases, runs a hand over his eyes. “I mean, I could try to help you out.”

“As long as you don’t mind me burning your building down,” Steve says. Bucky hears a door shut, hears a soft thump that must be Steve lying down.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Bucky says. “But aside from talking about that worst case scenario, what’d you do today?”  
  
-

Somehow, they stay on the phone for nearly three hours.

They talk about both nothing and everything in that time. Bucky finds himself laughing until his stomach aches with it, and through it all, it becomes apparent to him that it’s just...easy, talking to Steve. He doesn’t feel like he’s concealing any parts of himself from him, and Steve seems to feel the same way, loosening up even more than he already has, revealing a quick, dry humor Bucky can catch onto quickly, can roll with knowing Steve won’t get irritated at any teasing.

“You know, it’s half-past one,” Bucky says, eyes feeling heavier than he first thought, limbs warm and lazy. He’s switched to lying on his side, popped his earbuds in. “Don’t you have work in the morning?”  
  
“I have to be at the studio by ten, so yeah,” Steve says, quieter, thicker than before. He must be lying down, too. “But I think I’d rather talk to you.”

“Doesn’t that make me feel special,” Bucky says around a yawn. “I’d rather you talk to me, too.”

“Even if you fall asleep?” Steve asks.

“Even if I fall asleep,” Bucky echoes, hums. “Which might be happening right now.”  
  
Steve clicks his tongue. “Go to sleep, then, huh?” he says, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”   
  
“You gonna walk past my place again?” Bucky asks.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe I’ll cross the street this time. Try to avoid you.”  
  
“You can try, but this is my street, Rogers. It won’t work.”   
  
“Go to _sleep.”_

“Fine, fine, you win,” Bucky says. “You too, though. Work in the morning.”  
  
“Thanks for the tip,” Steve says. There’s a barely there pause, and then he says, “Goodnight, Buck,” in a way that has the knot in Bucky’s chest loosening, spreading a slow warmth through his core.   
  
“G’night, Steve.”   
  
Steve hangs up first, and for a minute, Bucky allows himself to stare up at the ceiling, watch the bluish light from the TV mingle with the orange of the streetlights.

He wonders, distantly, if Steve is doing the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this was so late :( i was really busy these past few days and i just had...the worst writers block but i think im back on track now thankfully :')
> 
> what did you think of this one? feel free to let me know as you know comments are my lifeblood
> 
> much love xx


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky wakes with the sun in his eyes and turns away from it with a groan, burying his face in the couch cushions. He does his best to stay awake, to resist the temptation of tumbling back into sleep, but his phone, wedged under a throw pillow, vibrates incessantly and he grabs for it blindly, groaning and silencing it, rejecting the call. 

He’s learned to recognize the number, a client he’d fallen out with over a year ago who still thinks Bucky is willing to edit a manuscript that was...hellish to deal with for more reasons than one. What was the point of hiring an editor if you fought them on every point they made?

With a stifled curse, he drags himself into the bathroom, turns the shower on, and tries to figure out where the day is heading.

-

It turns out to start at a diner, since Bucky can’t grasp making pancakes and that seems to be what both he and Rebecca are hankering for.

“That’s an awful lot of syrup, Becks,” Bucky says, cutting another bite out.

“Says you,” Rebecca argues.

Bucky glances down at his plate, swimming in syrup and melted chocolate chips.  _ Fair enou gh _ _,_ he thinks. “How do you feel about the folks coming back?” he asks around a forkful of pancakes. “Gonna be pretty boring without you hanging around.”   
  
“Yeah,” Rebecca says, dejected, and shrugs. “It’s gonna be boring for me, too.”   
  
“Well, you can always come back and spend the night,” Bucky says. “Not like I live in France or anything. Ma and Pop ain’t old, you know, they like to go on dates sometimes.”

Rebecca grimaces. “Ugh,” she sneers. “That’s so gross.”   
  
“And lucky you, you can stay with me and avoid ‘em being all mushy,” Bucky says, takes a swig of coffee. “Slide those over, why don’t you? I wanna try yours.”   
  
-

The rest of the afternoon is spent inside, and Bucky tries to squeeze a bit of time in for writing while Rebecca is distracted, touching up a few things and giving up when he starts considering changing the second half of his outline  _ again _ _._ He checks his phone after a while, reads the text on his lockscreen.

“Nat’s coming over,” Bucky says, glances up at Rebecca. “Want me to tell her to bring Liho?”   
  
That’s all it takes to get Rebecca’s attention. She whips her head away from her book. “Will she really bring her?” she asks.   
  
“Maybe,” Bucky says, types out the question and sends it. “We’ll see if she says yes.”   
  
Natasha’s response comes in only a minute or two later— **_her majesty and i will see u in 1hr._ **

-

“I should get a cat,” Bucky muses, watching Liho prowl curiously through the living room while Rebecca trails after her.

“You can barely take care of a plant,” Natasha points out, sat on the couch beside him. “Some house-warming gift that was.”

“Hey, I’ve had a succulent in that time,” Bucky argues. “It lived.”   
  
“So, where is it now?” Natasha asks.

“Well, the thing is,” Bucky starts.   
  
“That’s what I thought,” Natasha says.

“Hey, come on, I’ve done cat-sitting and plant-sitting for you before,” Bucky says. “I still have some skills leftover from that.”

He makes a kissing sound to call Liho over, scratching her under her chin and behind her ears, and Rebecca takes that moment to disappear into the bathroom. Bucky is almost dreading her leaving the room because it gives Natasha a window for—

“So, you’ve been suspiciously quiet about Steve, meaning it either went horribly wrong or very, very right,” she says, gaze utterly scrutinizing. “Which one is it?”

“There’s a kid here, just warning you,” Bucky says. “And she’s not an idiot.”   
  
“Your parents teach her Russian yet?” Natasha asks as Rebecca comes back into the living room.

“Not yet,” Bucky says. "Luckily for us."

“So switch when you have to, idiot,” Natasha says in Russian. “What happened?”   
  
Bucky sighs, slouches further back. Liho takes that as an opportunity to jump into his lap, pressing her head into his palm, seeking out the affection she knows he doles out. “Fine, you win,” he says as he pets her. “Rebecca went back to her friend’s place and he was headed my way, so we—”   
  
“What are you guys talking about?” Rebecca asks suspiciously.

Bucky says, “Don’t worry about it,” just as Natasha says, “Work stuff.”

Evidently, that’s enough to squash Rebecca’s curiosity. She manages to get Liho’s attention and gets her to jump from Bucky’s lap back to the floor, and then Rebecca’s scooting toward a far corner of the living room, jingling Bucky’s keys at Liho   
  
“We took the train back here,” Bucky continues, switching back.” And look, you don’t need to know every detail, but it went fine. He kissed me. There. Are you happy?”

“Sure,” Natasha says, tilts her head. “Are you?”

It’s still difficult, talking about this. Hell, difficult talking about dating, or the possibility of dating, at all. It’s been so long since Bucky’s put an effort into thinking about it it feels like he doesn’t know how to.

“Yeah,” Bucky says in English, huffs a surprised laugh. “Yeah, I think I am.”   
  
His phone lights up then and he curses quietly when he sees the text.

**_Hi._ ** **_Are you home?_ **

“Speaking of,” Bucky says, types out a reply, tries not to get too annoyed when Natasha leans over to read it.

_ gee i wonder where u are _

**_I’ll give you one guess._ **

_ stay right there _

“What the hell does that mean?” Natasha asks quietly.

“He passes by here to get to the station,” Bucky answers, and then he’s standing up. “Can you just give me—?”   
  
"Just  _ go _ already,” Natasha cuts in, and her eyes are smiling more than her mouth is. “Before you make him miss his train.”   
  
-

Bucky takes the stairs two at a time, pushes the door open to find Steve still standing there. A grin splits Bucky’s face, and Steve mirrors it, steps closer.

“Natasha’s upstairs with Becca,” Bucky says breathlessly. “So, I thought I’d come down instead of yellin’ it at you.”   
  
“Good, that means I can do this,” Steve says, and Bucky meets him halfway as he leans in, catches his mouth in a kiss that somehow feels better than the others. Steve’s mouth is warm and soft against Bucky’s own, and when he breaks away, Bucky rests his forehead against his.   
  
“Hi,” Bucky murmurs against his mouth, brings his hand to the back of Steve’s neck.

“Hi,” Steve repeats, leans back a little. Bucky takes him in, squeezes his nape gently before he lets his hands come to his side. “Wanna walk with me?”   
  
“Thought you’d never ask,” Bucky says, slings his arm around Steve’s shoulders as they fall into step together.

-

Bucky half-expects to run out of things to say, but he doesn’t, and neither does Steve as they walk the short distance to the station. At the entrance, they slow to a stop. Bucky sticks his hands into his pockets, allows himself to stand a little closer than before.

“You know, I could start meeting you outside Carter’s,” Bucky says. “Walking you over here. It’s not like I have anywhere to be.”   
  
“Sounds like a real chore for you, Buck,” Steve teases.

“Oh, you got no idea,” Bucky says. “As a matter of fact, I take it back. Walk on your own.”   
  
“Your ma raised a real gentleman,” Steve says. 

“She didn’t, actually,” Bucky says, then reaches out, takes Steve’s hand, feeling a little ridiculous when a spot of warmth blooms in the core of his chest. “We still on for Sunday? Maybe at seven?”

“Seven’s good,” Steve answers, squeezes Bucky’s fingers once before he lets go. “I’ll text you when I get back.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky says, makes a thoughtful sound. “Unless you’re getting tired of me.”   
  
“Not yet,” Steve teases, and he leans up on his toes ever so slightly. The kiss that follows is short and sudden, but it leaves Bucky feeling a little dizzy with the surrealness of it all. Being able to do this, being able to pull Steve close, to kiss him as much as he pleases.

When it breaks, Bucky pecks another at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “You sure?” he asks.   
  
Steve barks out a laugh. “I’ll see how I feel,” he says, and then he’s easing back with something like hesitation. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, lets go of his hand, dry and warm against his own. “Yeah, go ahead.”

When Steve disappears into the station, Bucky starts making his way back toward his apartment with a newfound lightness in his step. The cool air does nothing to ease the hot flush on his skin, the buzzing sensation in his blood, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He doubts that anything could truly bother him right now.

-

Natasha lifts her head when Bucky slips back inside, locks the door behind him. “Oh, good,” she says. “I thought you eloped.”

“Yeah, we just got back from our honeymoon,” Bucky says wryly, gestures to his own face. “Do I not have the glow of being a newlywed?”

“Actually, you do,” Natasha remarks. “You’re not staring the daggers you think you are, Barnes.”

“Neither are you,” Bucky says. He sits beside her. “Guess we’re both doing better with it than expected.”   
  
“Guess so,” Natasha says, laced with a slow, easy exhale. She screws her face up slightly. “But regardless, it’s weird to see Yelena in such a good mood now.”   
  
Bucky snorts. “Enjoy that while it lasts,” he says, bumps his knee against hers. “I’m glad you’re happy.”   
  
Natasha looks at him with something like mirth in her eyes before it melts to something warmer. “Yeah, me too,” she says, pauses for a long moment before she says, “About time we pulled our heads out of our asses.”   
  
“Fuck you,” Bucky laughs, low enough so Rebecca—sat on the kitchen floor with Liho, feeding her bits of a banana—doesn’t hear. “You always gotta ruin the moment.”   
  
“Oh, screw your moments,” Natasha says. “Last thing I’m gonna do is sit around talking about my feelings with you, especially if I’m sober.”

“Then I’ll remember to get you drunk next time,” Bucky says. “Scout’s honor.”   
  
-

When Natasha leaves, there isn’t much cleaning up to do, and the night slows down. Bucky is halfway through brushing his teeth when he notices a text he’d missed from Steve, meaning he got home ages ago.

Bucky reminds himself to answer it soon, stamps down the urge to say something despite the fact that he can’t think of any decent responses.

It’s not like he’ll lose the connection he has at this point. He’s sure of where he stands, thinks he knows where Steve stands, too.

And there was Sunday coming, anyway. They still had Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was a little shorter, and while there is a bit more to go, the end is coming soon :( next chapter just might be the last, but if im inclined ill post an epilogue!!
> 
> thanks so much for reading and sticking with the story so far! much love xx


	10. Chapter 10

Saturday moves quickly, and maybe the rest of the week has been that way, too, but it feels like before Bucky knows it, he and Rebecca have spent half the day doing nothing at all.

She’s drying the few dishes they’ve dirtied during dinner while Bucky washes them, and he thinks about how empty the apartment is going to feel once she leaves. That was the nice thing about living at home, he thinks, knowing you were never actually alone. Hell, maybe he should get a cat after all.

“Wanna do another double feature?” Bucky asks once he puts the last of the cutlery away. “I’ll let you pick both movies if you stay awake this time.”

That’s all it takes to get Rebecca to agree, and it isn't long before they get started. Funnily enough, it’s Bucky who drifts off halfway through the second movie and Rebecca shoves him hard until he wakes up, threatens to kick him if he falls asleep again.

“Did you like it?” Rebecca asks when the movie is over.

“It was cute,” Bucky says, scrubs his hands over his face, feels his palms catch on his stubble. He should shave, make an effort not to look as haggard as he’s felt every other time he’s seen Steve.

Which is in less than twenty-four hours. Christ, this feels different compared to...well, Bucky isn’t sure if they were on a date or not, really. Is this a first date? Does it count as a first date since they planned it?

“Ma always says that,” Rebecca grumbles. “And that means she hated it.”

Bucky huffs, annoyed. “Fine, fine,” he says, and throws his arms up. “It was a masterpiece. Greatest film ever made. Five stars.”

  
“ _Right_?” Rebecca exclaims.

-

When Rebecca goes to bed, Bucky makes his usual camp on the couch, tugging the throw up to his chin and turning away from the windows, trying not to worry about tomorrow, trying not to overthink any of it. Steve, how things might go from here, how fast or how slow to move.

He tosses and turns for a while, startles awake from incoherent dreams before he finally falls asleep, arm dangling off the couch, fingers brushing the floor.

-

It’s obscenely early when Bucky wakes up, and he tries to take advantage of it, taking his time showering and using an electric razor until he has light stubble rather than something verging on a full beard. 

According to the text he’d woken up to from Ma, he’ll have to drop Rebecca home rather than have her be picked up. After that, he has to get to a grocery store because for _whatever reason_ _,_ he decided to tell Steve he’d cook and now Bucky’s forgotten every recipe he’s ever made, and it seems like the grocery store is a must since all he has left is a carton of eggs, a bottle of hot sauce, and a box of cereal along with a half-filled bottle of orange juice.

Christ, he needs to calm down. Needs to shake off the nerves that refuse to leave him be. He has plenty of time, he has hours until Steve shows up, and the rational part of Bucky’s brain knows there won’t be any hitches to it, knows they’re getting comfortable with each other. Why else would Bucky invite him over?  
  
He finishes getting dressed in the bathroom, padding out barefoot, and goes into the bedroom to wake Rebecca. It might not be much longer until Ma and Pop’s flight lands, and as much as she’s fallen into the rhythm of things here, Bucky has a funny feeling she’ll be eager to get home.

-

Bucky gets a text from his pop, saying they’ve landed and are on their way home, as he’s pulling Rebecca’s hair back into a ponytail, and he glances to her packed suitcase sitting by the door, the duffle of her things for ballet class, propped on top of it.  
  
“I mean what I said, Becks,” Bucky says, letting her stand up once he’s finished with her hair. “Come back whenever you want.”

“I know you did,” Rebecca says lightly. “Maybe I’ll come hang out with _you_ after class next time.”  
  
“You’re the boss,” Bucky says, pushes off the couch. It’s funny, three people he’s close to all in the same place. Steve, Natasha, Rebecca. Sometimes, Brooklyn feels much smaller than it actually is. “Now, we can either make a stop along the way or go straight home. Your choice.”  
  
They get breakfast at the diner again, and between draining three mugs of coffee, the sun warm and streaming through the windows by their booth, Bucky is in a better mood than he was before.

It’s not too hot and it takes about a half-hour to walk to Ma and Pop’s building, so they take their time with it, try not to rush. They’re a block away when Bucky gets another text, telling him his parents have just gotten back, and that’s when Rebecca gets a spring in her step, walking a little faster, more familiar with the route home than Bucky thought she would be.

-

The Barneses were no strangers to moving around, to accommodate their work, to accommodate whatever life was currently throwing at them, but that seems to have slowed to a stop recently. His parents moved into this apartment, roomier and much bigger than anywhere they’ve ever lived, less than a year after he moved out, and it’s roomier, more open than what he grew up in. More comfortable.

Unlike Rebecca, Bucky grew up in cramped apartments all over Brooklyn before his parents got comfortable in Crown Heights. Hell, one was a studio smaller than Bucky’s current one, and for a time, his uncle lived with them. 

So, it’s a relief, really, that Rebecca can live comfortably, won’t have to work through high school and not wonder whether she was going to live somewhere for more than a few months, to wonder whether both Ma and Pop would have jobs or not now that things have finally gotten steady right under her nose.

On the elevator up, she tries to pull herself up onto the railing and Bucky stops her. “Hey now,” he says. “You don’t have a scratch on you, and I’m not bringing you in with any kinda injury, alright?”

“Fine,” Rebecca sighs heavily, drops her head back. The elevator dings, and she takes that as her cue to run out, to leave Bucky trailing after her with her things in either hand.

“Hey, so now, I’m your chauffeur?” Bucky calls. “You don’t even have keys to unlock the door, Becks!”

“I can _knock_ _,_ remember?” Rebecca argues.

Apparently, both the two of them are loud enough to be heard from inside, because his ma opens the door, sticks her head out.

“Hey, Mama!” Rebecca shouts, louder than before as she takes a running start for Ma and almost mows her down when she hugs her around the waist. “I missed you!”  
  
“Hey, Becca-girl,” Ma grins, kisses her hair. She looks as tired as Bucky feels, set back by the jetlag. He has a feeling she’ll be more awake than his pop will, who has to sleep for hours regardless of the length of a trip. “Get in here, come on. Buck? Are you just gonna stand outside all day?”

She catches his gaze and he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he jokes. “I kinda like it out here.”

  
-

Bucky does end up going in for a while, and stays longer than he planned to.

He asks his folks about their trip, how they spent the week, and ends up letting Rebecca do most of the talking when his pop asks him how _they_ spent the week. In Rebecca’s long-spanning stories, it all makes it seem much more exciting than Bucky would have described it, but then again, he supposes, everything is better, more exciting, when you’re a kid.

It’s noon by the time he finds a window to leave, since Pop has disappeared into the bedroom to sleep off his jetlag, Rebecca disappearing into her room; surely to haphazardly stuff everything she has packed back into her drawers.

“We really can’t thank you enough,” Ma says, tugs him into a hug at the door. “Really, Bucky.”  
  
“We had fun, really,” Bucky says truthfully as he pulls back. “It was nice having her around. She can come back whenever she wants.”

She squeezes his shoulder once, lets her arm drop to her side. “You sure you don’t wanna stick around for a while?” she asks, and Bucky knows she doesn’t mean it, but he hears the faint undercurrent of _do you really want to sit in your apartment alone all day?_

It’s the only back and forth, the only bickering they’ve ever really had, but they’ve long since grown past it. Bucky can’t fault her for certain things, and he supposes she can’t fault him. They’ll both have their immature moments, partly thanks to the barely there age difference between them.

“I gotta run around for a while, anyway,” Bucky says. “Clean up and stuff. Got company coming. Well, not company, but I got a, uh—”  
  
He doesn’t plan on saying it, but it slips out anyway, and Ma must read it all over his face because she raises her brows, a smile creeping up her face. “You have a date?” she asks. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s new,” Bucky says, sticks his hands into his pockets. “Real new. But I got a good feeling about it.”  
  
“What’s his name?”  
  
Bucky balks, a nervous laugh punching from his chest. “Ma, are you kidding?” he blurts out.

“Not in the slightest,” Ma says. “What’s his name?”

It’s hard not to feel the faint burn of embarrassment, even as old as he is, but it’s there. “Steve,” Bucky says. “His name’s Steve. Look, I—” he pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb. “I just don’t wanna jinx anything. He’s a good guy, and I don’t wanna screw it up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Ma says, too sure of herself. She shrugs. “And even if you do, at least you’re handsome. He’ll forgive you.”  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes, but he finds himself smiling at her. “Gee, thanks,” he says wryly. “Maybe now I’ll get someone else other than you tellin’ me that.”  
  
After that, he lets her walk him to the elevator, and once he’s inside, she cranes her neck as the doors shut. “Don’t be a stranger, zaychik,” she says, like she almost always does.  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, and then the elevator is descending, opening before he steps out and onto the street, breathing in what feels like the final dregs of summer.

  
He thinks he has an idea brewing in his head, and if he remembers the recipe correctly, he might be able to actually impress Steve tonight.

-

He has plenty of time to go to the grocery store, to get both what he needs for dinner and restock whatever’s missing from the kitchen. By the time he’s back home, he’s out of breath from hauling bags up the flights of stairs, swallowing down the urge to panic.

“Shit,” he says out loud, for no reason at all, and then nearly jumps when his phone pings loudly in the empty room. He digs it out of his pocket, feels his heart lurch when he sees the text is from Steve.

**_I hope it’s okay if I bring something over. You’ll like it, I promise :)_ **

Bucky taps his socked foot against the floor. Hesitates before he types back an answer.

_already excited_

_see you later :)_

-

The recipe Bucky has is old and simple, but it’s still hard work. 

Kneading the dough for the pelmeni has his arms burning, but he manages to whip up the pork filling as close to his grandmother’s recipe as possible. It might not be perfect, not to him, at least, but Steve might like it. Bucky hopes he likes it.  
  
He finds the time to wash his face while the dough sets in the fridge. He change his clothes into something that’s not the shapeless jeans and old t-shirt he initially left with, digging through his cramped closet until he finds another pair of jeans, rarely worn despite the fact that they fit him better than the other pair. He ties his hair back, pulls it away from his face, slips a grey henley over his head. It’s not like he’s going anywhere fancy, and a part of him has a feeling Steve isn’t the type to get dressed up often. 

Sure, Bucky’s not against cleaning up nice every once in a while, but he’d rather not pretend to be someone he’s not. Rather not show an illusion to anyone, especially Steve, who’s seen Bucky in just about every state by now—from irritable and disheveled to slick and dressed, trying to shake off the rotten hurt of being stood up.

And of course, that’s what comes into Bucky’s head of _all_ things. Bad dates he could deal with, but there was something about the sting of being stood up with no explanation, the humiliation that still sat heavy on his shoulders. It was why he opted for hook-ups for a time, to have a string of communication with someone while keeping things as detached as possible, only ever getting in touch to arrange a time and a place and nothing more.

Bucky considers all of this as he fills and wraps the pelmeni, pinching them shut. He considers the fact that maybe whatever he’s trying to establish with Steve doesn’t have to be that way. It shouldn’t even be something he’s worried about, since they’ve only had good experiences so far, despite barely knowing each other.

“Oh, man,” Bucky mutters, almost plaintively, when he notices all his counter space taken up by pelmeni.  
  
Well, he can always freeze the rest.

-

It’s two minutes to seven.

Bucky is beginning to find it hard not to wonder if Steve is coming or not.

He sits on the couch with his leg bouncing, clutching the neck of his empty beer bottle, thumb running over the lip of it endlessly, biting a divot into his cheek as the clock ticks.

It could be nothing. It could be that Steve is punctual and wants to arrive on the dot. It could be that he’s running late, but he would have sent a text if that was the case, right? Besides, it’s not like they haven’t kissed, haven’t _talked_ about how they felt about each other, but Steve could have changed his mind.

Stranger things have happened.

-

Twenty minutes past seven.

Antsy doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels.

Bucky opens another beer, and for a lack of anything better to do, he sets a pot of salted water to boil, drops a bay leaf in and leans against the counter, tries not to watch it despite the fact that he doesn’t plan on moving from this spot.

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, puffs out a long, slow breath before he lets his arms drop to his sides. He doesn’t even consider sending a text, because what would it do now? If Steve has decided not to show up, it’s not like there’s anything Bucky can do about that. It’s not as if he could change Steve’s mind if he decided he’s not interested.

There’s a knock at the door, quick and insistent knuckles rapping against the wood.

Bucky doesn’t think about how quickly he makes it to the door. It’s like he blinks and he’s unlocking all three locks, wrenching the door open with a burst of relief that almost feels embarrassing in its intensity, a feeling that only deepens when he sees Steve standing there.

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but Steve, breathless and red-cheeked with exertion, beats him to it.

“I’m late, I know,” Steve puffs out, swallows down a breath. He’s wearing glasses again, wearing a plaid blue flannel with a black t-shirt underneath. “I had more to do today than I thought, I took a cab and got stuck in traffic so I got out, basically ran here because it was a goddamn standstill. Phone died while I was walking and just—” he catches Bucky’s eye, gaze firm and so goddamn earnest, Bucky feels foolish for second-guessing him. “I’m sorry, Buck. I hope you didn’t think I was flaking on you, ‘cause that’s...hell, that’s the last thing I’d wanna do, I swear.”

Bucky tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it must look pitiful, because Steve continues, looking harried.

“You weren’t waiting long, right?” he asks, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an inhaler, giving it a shake. Bucky notices a brown paper bag in Steve’s other hand, the handles damp with sweat.

It takes Bucky a moment to respond, since his head is spinning ever so slightly, but he shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge,” he says, tries to keep his tone as casual as possible, tries to think past the twinge of guilt twisting in his guts. He reaches out, squeezes Steve’s upper arm, and whether it’s to reassure Steve or himself, he isn’t sure. “Just get in here. Catch your breath for a minute.”  
  
-

It takes a couple of puffs from his inhaler for Steve’s breathing to even out, and now Bucky’s lingering fear, lingering irritation is being squashed out by worry. 

He hands Steve a bottle of water, standing awkwardly in front of him rather than sitting on the couch beside him. He isn’t sure why he’s doing it at all, and the nerves are making Bucky feel like he’s back at square one.

“Did you really run here?” Bucky asks, arms crossed in front of him.

Steve sets his inhaler on the coffee table. “Once I saw I was ten minutes late, yeah,” he answers, puffs out a laugh that almost sounds annoyed as he runs his fingers through his hair. “It was just a whole shitshow, getting here. I would have called you if I was able to.”

And maybe if Bucky had tried sending a text, he would have seen that it didn’t deliver, and came to that realization himself instead of spiraling into doubting the past few days, doubting Steve.

“Hey, you’re here now, huh?” Bucky says, half to Steve and half to himself, and sits down, resists the urge to wring his hands together. “Like I said, water under the bridge.”

The tension eases, just a little. Begins to ebb away, and when Steve smiles at him, the knot in Bucky’s chest loosens, leaves him smiling back.

Steve glances toward the kitchen, a bewildered look on his face. “You boiling something?” he asks, and Bucky glances to the smoking pot.

“Fuck!” Bucky snaps, and jogs for the kitchen, turning the heat down before the water has a chance to boil over. He breathes out, reaches into a drawer for a spider strainer. “Sorry, Christ, if you noticed that a minute later—” his laugh is nervous, hoarse. “It’s been going pretty well, so that would have sucked.”  
  
“What’d you make?” Steve asks as Bucky gets things ready, turning the heat higher once more to leave it at a rolling boil.

“Pelmeni. They’re like dumplings. Well, they are dumplings, but you’re not gonna get these from the freezer section at the store,” Bucky says as he starts dropping a few in, lowering them into the water with the strainer. “It’s nothin’ special, but my grandma taught my ma who ended up teachin’ me.”  
  
“And you did these all by hand,” Steve says, a lopsided smile creeping up his mouth.

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says, tries to push past the last of his nerves, tries to let himself relax. “And ended up making like, over a hundred without realizing it, so I froze the rest and now I’m set for the rest of the year unless someone wants ‘em.”

“That reminds me,” Steve says, and he strides back to the coffee table, grabs the bag he came with and sets it gently on the counter. “Open it up.”  
  
Bucky raises a brow at him, watching the pot from the corner of his eye for a second before he digs into the bag, putting the contents down. “Let’s see what we got,” he murmurs.

It turns out to be a round pan covered with foil. Even with the covering, Bucky can faintly smell cinnamon and it makes his hollow stomach pang. He eases the foil away, and it reveals a cake, golden brown on top with slices of apple peeking up from underneath. The smell of it is stronger, deep and warm and somehow smelling of home.  
  
“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” Bucky says, a smile creeping up his face when he looks up at Steve.  
  
“I can’t, and I can’t bake much either, but I’ve been practicing this one for a while,” Steve says, rubs the back of his neck. “Guess we’re both borrowing from family, since this is my ma’s recipe.”  
  
Okay, fine. Steve wins. All negative feelings have flown out the window.

“You know, I’d kiss you,” Bucky says slowly. “But I don’t wanna overcook these.”  
  
“They can be overcooked,” Steve says.  
  
“Hey, you pulled out all stops, lemme do the same, Rogers,” Bucky teases, moves away when Steve comes closer, feeling a little lighter than he did a moment ago. “Grab us some bowls, would ya?”  
  
-

Bucky serves up the pelmeni with a dollop of sour cream and (maybe too much) dill, cracks open two beers, and sets everything at the table he rarely uses. The alcohol eases him up in fragments, and he finds it easier to get his head together again, to fall back into the rhythm he and Steve are trying to find as time passes.

“So, what’s stopping you from leaving?” Bucky asks, takes a swig of beer. “Plenty of art schools in Brooklyn, there’s gotta be one you’ve got your eye on.”  
  
“I guess it’s guilt,” Steve answers around a mouthful. Bucky feels a little smug at the fact that dinner came out well, even if it wasn’t with much fanfare. He forgets he likes cooking at home too often, these days. “I know most of the people in the faculty pretty well now, I don’t mind the kids, but I dunno, it’s just...I don’t know what I’m gonna do next, honestly. I’m trying to take it day by day, but it’s hard not to think about it. I know I’ll figure it out, I’m just not usually this indecisive.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, leaning across the table on crossed arms. “You seem like the type to know what you want.”

“Do I?” Steve asks. “What makes you say that?”  
  
“You don’t believe me?”  
  
“I do, I’m just curious.”

“Oh,” Bucky chuckles, finishes off his plate. “Okay, smartass, I see how it is. You want me to butter you up.”

Steve snorts. “Jesus, no,” he says. “No, I hate that.”  
  
“Hey, I don’t mind,” Bucky says, raises his arms in an exaggerated shrug, palms open. “I write for a living. I’m sure I’ll find a real nice way to do it.”

They carry on like that, simple and slow, and when Steve cuts into the cake, sets two slices on plates, their ankles stay leaned against each other. Neither question when it happened, and Bucky doesn’t attempt to move away from the pressure, especially since that steady, warm thrum he feels has only seemed to deepen, increase with the passing time.

Bucky digs his fork into the slice. “Alright, moment of truth,” he says, and takes a generous bite.

Steve’s staring a hole through him. Bucky stares back as he chews, tastes the sweetness of the baked apples, the fragrant cinnamon, the crunch of walnuts. When he swallows, Steve says, “What? That bad?”  
  
Bucky leans across the table and kisses him, grabbing a fistful of his flannel as he does. He’s surprised when Steve kisses back with even more fervor, but then it’s breaking, and they’re both a little breathless. Bucky’s heart is pounding when he smiles, when he brings his hand up to Steve’s neck, thumb resting at the corner of his jaw.

“I really hope that was a good enough answer,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve’s hand slides up, tucks the hair that escaped from Bucky’s bun behind his ear. It’s strangely intimate, sweet in a way that makes Bucky a little weak in the knees. “Maybe you can try again,” Steve says, so low Bucky nearly misses it. “Just to be sure.”  
  
Bucky comes around the table to get closer, and this time, the kiss is harder, more insistent. It’s not something Bucky’s experienced around Steve yet. There was no time to take things further, not when Bucky’s hands were full all week, but now they have tonight, and that thought alone is enough to send a surge of anticipation up Bucky’s spine, curling around his body and clenching in his abdomen.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers when Steve stands up, feels himself getting warm all over when he’s tugged closer, Steve’s big hands on his hips, long fingers slipping under the hem of Bucky’s shirt. “Wait a sec.”  
  
Everything stops in its tracks. “What?” Steve asks hoarsely.

“My bedroom’s a fucking disaster,” Bucky answers, and laughs silently when he realizes how ridiculous it sounds, when Steve laughs in his face. “It’s—I’m serious! It’s the only thing I didn’t clean today.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine,” Steve says, nonchalant. His lips are darker than they were before, slick with spit.

“Want me to prove it?” Bucky asks as Steve drags him down, feels a dark pulse of heat when Steve kisses him again. “C’mon.”

-

The apple cake remains untouched after that.

-

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bucky asks, grabbing Steve around the waist when he shifts to get out of the bed. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

“That so?” Steve says, turns around in Bucky’s hold, hair dark with sweat. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay.”  
  
“That’s crazy talk, pal,” Bucky says. He feels boneless, lower back smarting faintly but he can’t bring himself to care about it too much. He can’t bring himself to care about much of anything. “I live right by your job, I got a washer and dryer, and not to brag, but I think I’m pretty good-looking.”  
  
“You’re not too bad,” Steve says, smiles wryly before he shifts to lie on top of Bucky, sheets slipping down his waist. “So, I can work with that. You drive a hard bargain, but I think you got me.”

Bucky hums, low in his chest. He reaches up, splays his other hand between Steve’s shoulder blades. “What can I say? I’m a persuasive guy,” he says. “Bet I can convince you to stay here all day tomorrow, too.”

“Come on, Buck, convincing me’s the last thing you gotta do,” he says, and he kisses the dimple in Bucky’s chin before he squirms away. “But I gotta put my phone to charge, text Sam and Sharon to let ‘em know I’m not coming back.”  
  
“Fine, you’re free to go, just hurry,” Bucky says, lets his arms flop to his sides. He cranes his neck to peek through the gap in the curtains, see the profile of Steve's naked body. “I mean it!”  
  
Steve flips him off and Bucky laughs, keeps an eye on him as he comes back with his dead phone, plugs it into the charger Bucky keeps by the bed. “Your place is freezing. Jesus,” Steve says, and gets back under the covers. “Maybe you were onto something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky says, pulls him in again just as Steve closes the distance between them again, one leg hooking around Bucky’s waist, his arm wrapping around his shoulders, and _Christ_ , Bucky could get used to this.

He could really get used to this.

-

**_four months later_ **

December brings slushy snow that piles up on the curb, brings Christmas lights into every window display and left Bucky scrambling to get a tree to squeeze into his living room.

It’s cold enough that he feels it through his boots, but he’s still out, his beanie low on his brow, scarf covering his nose and mouth. He has the same sheep-skin lined leather jacket he’s had since he was nineteen, nabbed at a thrift store in Staten Island of all goddamn places in the world.

Carter’s looks warm and inviting, even though they’re just about closed. Bucky lingers at the entrance, watching, until someone steps out, wrapped in a scarf thicker than his, a wool cap and a dark brown coat.

“Hey, can I help you with something?” Steve asks over a gust of wind, takes a step closer.  
  
“Me?” Bucky asks, tugging his scarf down his face. “Nah, I’m just waiting for my boyfriend.”  
  
“Oh, that’s weird,” Steve says, tilts his head. “Me too.”

“Funny how that works out, huh?” Bucky says.

The pause that falls between them is just long enough for them to break, for Steve to bark out a laugh, cheeks and nose already turning red with the cold. He comes closer, and Bucky drops his arm heavily around his shoulders, tugs him in close.

“You hear back from the publishers yet?” Steve asks, arm coming around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky feels himself grin, and tries his best to keep the swell of excitement down, but Steve seems to read it all over his face. 

“ _Buck_ ,” he presses, stops in his tracks. “Did you—”  
  
“They want the book,” Bucky says, clutches both of Steve’s shoulders. “They wanna get the first book out by next October, they want the whole she-bang. They want the whole goddamn Winter Soldier trilogy, and sorry, but I’m freaking the _fuck_ out.”

His laugh might be a little hysterical, but he doesn’t care because Steve is tugging him closer, shutting him up with his mouth on his. He tastes vaguely of coffee, and his nose is warm against Bucky’s cheek when he presses close.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Bucky says against his mouth, almost dizzy with the happiness he feels. “You know that right?”

“You were gonna do it with or without me, you big sap,” Steve says, and then they’re walking again, just as close. “I’m glad you told me now, though. Last thing I wanted to do was smack one on you with your folks in the room.”  
  
“It would’ve made a hell of a first impression, I’ll tell you that,” Bucky chuckles. “You know, they’re gonna take a while to get to the restaurant. Wanna kill some time? I’ve never been to the rink in Rockefeller Center, you know.”  
  
“Neither have I,” Steve says, and he tugs his hat off when they make it down the steps of the subway station. “Mainly because I don’t wanna slip and fall on my face.”  
  
“I can’t skate, either,” Bucky says. “And who cares if it’s a tourist trap? Let’s check it out.”  
  
-

“That’s it?” Bucky says, unimpressed, looking up at the Christmas tree.

“I thought it’d be bigger,” Steve says, nose wrinkled up as he glances to Bucky. “Seein’ how everyone makes such a fuss.”  
  
“Like I said, tourist trap,” Bucky says, rolls his eyes hard when a guy bumps into him hard. “Okay, we gotta get out of here now. These crowds are killing me.”

Steve laughs, starts moving his way out of the commotion. “You coming?” he asks.

He’s reaching back, holding out a gloved hand for Bucky. Fat flakes of snow are starting to fall over the city, and the lights cast a warm glow over everything ahead.

Bucky reaches out, grabs Steve’s fingers, and lets himself be tugged away from the crush of the crowd.

**_end._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's done, after long last! thank you guys so, so, SO much for sticking with the fic as long as you have. thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks and everything!
> 
> keep up with me on tumblr, my username is luludori.
> 
> THANK YOU AGAIN!!!!!!! MWAH XX


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